


A SCAdian Neighbor and the Problem of Thor Bridge

by Ailorian



Category: SCAdian, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - fandom, Sisters Grinn, johnlock - Fandom
Genre: F/F, F/M, Fanfiction, Gen, Implied Smut, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlockary - Freeform, M/M, Multi, Original Character - Freeform, Other, SCA - Freeform, SCAdian - Freeform, Selfish, Slow Building Smut, TW-Family Deaths, caselock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-14
Updated: 2013-08-07
Packaged: 2017-12-08 12:01:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/761094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ailorian/pseuds/Ailorian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of events linked together by a plot line that I developed daydreaming. Inserted self into narration for my own selfish purposes. </p><p>Mary is a SCAdian cast from the Knowne World during the apocalypse that solves the time loop problem. Sponsored by a distant cousin, she is moved to London and takes up residence at 221 Baker Street. </p><p>Despite her attempts to avoid socialization with her housemates, Mary becomes close friends with John and Sherlock. When Sherlock finds out who her sponsor is, he uses the information against her to gain her assistance in improving his intimacy with John through a series of psychological stimulus designed to make him more comfortable with his slightly homosexual tendencies. (John isn't gay, but he never said anything about being /bi/)</p><p>That's the romantic side of this story; the rest I don't want to ruin in the synopsis :D I'm tempted to include Johnlockary in the tags but am not sure if it qualifies given that my Mary is an original character... opinions?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pleasant Introductions

A young woman stood on Baker Street, her black pea coat becoming damp in the misty London mid-August air. She glanced down at the little note in her hand again, her eyes darting up in disbelief at the black wood door before her. The hanging lamp above her head read: 221, and according to her sponsor there were three apartments here, though only one was now empty.

Tucking a bit of curling coppery hair behind her ear, she shoved the slip of paper into her leather satchel, tossed comfortably over her shoulder, and climbed the double step to knock.

The door swung open only a moment later to reveal a pleasant elderly woman, her curled chestnut hair speckled with grey, wearing a simple flowered blouse and a long skirt belted at the waist. Subtle wrinkles bespoke her age, and small callouses on her hands suggested that she gardened, or some other such hobby, though her nails were prim, smooth, and polished. Her hazel eyes were warm and curious, searching the girl’s face.

“You must be Mary Moore.” She stated finally, smiling and turning to invite the young woman inside. Hesitating for a moment, the girl stepped forward to enter the narrow hallway, politely wiping her boots on the mat.

“I am, yes.” She murmured sullenly, before forcing a smile.

The floor was dark stained hardwood, a bit aged but solid and silent. Farther down the hall was a purple woven rug, leading the way towards a white kitchen with plenty of windows. The walls had wood paneling from the floor, halfway up the wall, topped with lavender wallpaper, and photo frames littered the right side, since the other was hindered by the staircase.

“I’m Mrs. Hudson, the landlady.” The woman continued. “I’ve already received your trunk and armoire, and had them placed in the living room upstairs.” Her accent was soft and subtle, and rather attractive compared to the cabby and the banker.

“Thank you.” Mary mumbled shyly.

The stairs were the same dark wood, though they looked less polished than the hall, and the railing was sturdy, decorated with simple, smooth poles. Each step had a stretch of padded rug across the center, meant to muffle footsteps.

“Not a problem dear.” Mrs. Hudson smiled, taking Mary’s arm to lead her upstairs. “I’m told everything has been arranged at the bank, so I shan’t be bothering you for much, unless you’d like the company. I understand that you’re still seeking employment.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, I’d be happy to give you spending money for little chores around the house, I am starting on the downward slope you know, but there are also some little shops nearby that are always hiring young people from the universities around here.”

“Thank you.”

The first landing, seventeen steps above the ground floor, had one rather large door; solid wood with square engravings, two across and four down, spaced evenly with attractive molding. As the two of them reached the top step, the door opened and closed rapidly, leaving a gentleman standing before them.

His hair was light brown, or perhaps dirty blond, laced with grey similar to Mrs. Hudson, though his face was younger. Dressed in a plain button-up and jeans, he had soot smudges on his face and hands. The knobby state of his knuckles suggested he popped and twisted them out of nervous habit, or perhaps had been in more than a few fights, and by the tilt and curve of his thumb it was obvious he knew how to hold a gun, likely a police officer or military man. Pale blue eyes darted between the two of them, and he sighed in a put-upon manner.

“Mrs. Hudson.” He murmured in greeting, his voice breathy, as if he had been sprinting. Before she could answer, an awful sound like an explosion rocked the entire house, causing dust to shake from the ceiling. Smoke leaked from beneath the door, which the man had pressed his shoulders against as if to brace it.

“My goodness what is he doing in there?” Mrs. Hudson demanded, sounding distressed.

“Uh, not certain.” The gentlemen murmured nervously. “Who’s this?” Mary, brushing dust off her damp jacket, stopped to glance at him curiously.

“This is Mary Moore.” Mrs. Hudson answered quickly, placing her hands on the girl’s shoulders.

“John Watson.” The gentleman murmured, grasping her hand to shake it politely; tight and steady, a medical care person then; maybe even army doctor. “You’ll be renting the front half of the third floor, I presume?” A bit uncomfortably, Mary glanced at Mrs. Hudson, a curious look on her face.

“I was told I would have the third floor to myself.” She mumbled curiously.

“Well there is only one flat up there, dear.” Mrs. Hudson explained. “But John’s bedroom is technically on the third floor, by a separate staircase.”

“I’m not up there much, if that’ll set you at ease.” He added. Unconsciously, Mary bit her bottom lip, before remembering her manners.

“I have no problem, my lord.” She assured him. “It’s just that I’m a bit of a night owl. I hope you’ll let me know if I make any disagreeable noise.” Mr. Watson scoffed pleasantly.

“I’m sure you can’t make more noise than him, the man plays violin at all hours and cooks explosions when he’s bored.”

“Speaking of, I should like to have a word with him.” Mrs. Hudson demanded. “Kindly let me through, John.” Sighing, Mr. Watson stepped aside.

“Would you like to come as well?” He asked, holding out an inviting arm for Mary to enter. “This is as good a time as ever to meet your other neighbor.” Shrugging, she followed.

The room was still a bit smoky, but there were two tall windows open across the room, allowing the wind outside to clear it. An odd animal’s head hung between the open windows, drawing the eye immediately. Beneath the windows sat a wooden desk, littered with paperwork, a haphazarded laptop, half-empty mugs and bottles. To one side, there was a quaint fireplace with a decorated mantel, covered in random bits of collectible nonsense, and beside the door the wall was basted with newspaper clippings and thumbtacks.

“John!! It worked!!” A man shouted, emerging a moment later from what looked like the kitchen, equipped with the proper appliances, but cluttered with jars of increasingly strange and disturbing samples. “Not a spark required!” This man had dark hair, deep blue-black growing in unruly curls, and a sharply angled face. He was much taller than the other, with lanky limbs and long piano fingers, and wore a loose pair of grey flannel pyjamas, with a dark blue robe.. His eyes were all shades of green, grey, yellow and blue melted together seamlessly, and had a sort of distant, speculative gaze.

“Sherlock Holmes!!” Mrs. Hudson shouted, stomping towards him with her hands on her hips. “What could you possibly be doing? Look at this mess!!”

“Do calm down, madam.” The man answered crossly. “There’s been no physical damage, just a bit of unpleasant, however harmless smoke, which will be cleared in a few minutes.” Before Mrs. Hudson could continue, the man brushed past her, quickly shuffling through a stack of papers on the wooden desk between the windows.

“Sherlock.” Mr. Watson murmured calmly. “Come meet the new neighbor.” Those eyes turned towards Mary, raking in her appearance in a glance; his focused gaze was as cold as ice, giving her goosebumps until he finally looked away.

“I’ll just make some tea then, shall I?” Mrs. Hudson whispered in defeat, her voice sounding flustered and distant. “Would you like anything, Mary?”

“Coffee, if you have it ma’am.” Mary answered unconsciously, a bit distracted. Mr. Holmes glanced up again, turning his attention from the stack of crumpled looseleaf.

“A coffee drinker?” He asked, a touch sardonic. “No surprise, given the American accent. What is that, Pennsylvania Dutch?” A bit confused, and self conscious, Mary shrugged, lifting one shoulder while she slipped her hands into her pockets.

“Yea, I s’pose.” She mumbled uncomfortably.

“Oh, a shrugger. I hate shruggers. Such a noncommittal gesture.” Sounding disappointed, he began to shuffle his papers again, searching for something in particular. Mumbling, he added. “Generally a signature of the self-conscious mouse.” A couple of hard cover texts were dropped into the chair, with titles such as The History and Societal Influence of the Potato.

“You’ve left it on the kitchen counter again.” Mr. Watson informed him a bit snarkily, Mary suspected he enjoyed it. Casting him a dirty look, Mr. Holmes stalked back into the kitchen, reappearing a moment later with a small brown leather diary.

“I’ll just be back up in a moment.” Mrs. Hudson whispered, slipping past Mary to reach the stairs. “Sugar, dear?”

“Just a bit of milk, ma’am.” Mary answered her again. “Please.” She added.

“Even less surprising.” Mr. Holmes muttered disdainfully. Bending over the desk once more to find a pen, he started scribbling on a half-blank page. “Or is it more unsurprising? Always muddling up good hard caffeine, if you want something so soft as milky coffee, then just have tea, pathetic addiction really.”

“No worse than nicotine.” Mary mumbled smartly, clicking her teeth as she shut her mouth again. Generally, she was much more polite with strangers, but generally they were polite with her.

“What?” Mr. Holmes asked, confused by her remark. Mary paused awkwardly.

“You have a red mark on your arm.” She answered quietly, wondering if he would be put off by her inane observation. “Just above the sleeve of your robe. Same shape and size as the average over the counter nicotine patch.”

“How did you notice?” Mr. Holmes asked, straightening and tugging his sleeve subconsciously. Mary watched him silently for a moment, glancing to Mr. Watson for help, who was staring at the ceiling. Would these two have the same disturbed response to her ridiculous assumptions and observations as everyone else she had met so far?

“It’s noticeable when you stretch your arm.” She explained, quietly, unsure how much she wanted to reveal. “You’ve torn it off recently, and harshly, judging by the shade of pink. There are easier ways to remove them, you know.”

Mr. Holmes cocked his head to the side, taking a step towards her as he raked in her appearance once more, this time a bit more invasively, it seemed. Crossing her arms over her chest, Mary shifted her weight to the other leg.

“How obvious.” He muttered. “I suppose you’ve seen a lot of them, perhaps on your parents? There’s no hint of the scent on you, but that could be drowned by the bottle of rose oil you poured on your head this morning.”  
Wondering what he was getting at, Mary quirked a curious brow, puckering her mouth a bit, probably an unconscious habit, while she considered him silently.

“Sherlock.” Mr. Watson warned. “Do try to be pleasant.”

“I’ve just come in to introduce myself.” Mary explained quietly. “Mrs. Hudson introduced Mr. Watson on the landing.”

“Doctor Watson.” Mr. Holmes corrected instantly.

“My mistake.” She murmured in reply.

“No it wasn’t.” He argued. “Your mouth twitched, lip curling, you’re lying.”

“Sherlock.” Mr. Watson interrupted. “This is Mary Moore, she’s just moving in upstairs.” Glancing at him, Mr. Holmes blinked.

“That’s not your real name, is it?” He asked in a soft voice, dropping his gaze to her feet. “Interesting attire, I suppose you made most of those clothes yourself, presuming you don’t have a private tailor. Some sort of medieval reenactor, with those hand-cut leather soles, even expensive tailors would waterproof them properly, but I can see the clotted lumps of wax, done by your own hand no doubt. Same as the bag, clumsily cut and sewn by a beginner, and yet carefully oiled to avoid sun and water damage. Seemingly excessive efforts to remain all natural when there are more efficient materials available.”

“None of your jewelry is machine made, mostly it looks like pounded silver and lumps of amber, but no visible copper, greening of the skin, or rust, so its genuine; you’re a historical perfectionist. The pentacle on your chest is special, in spite of its simplistic unadornment, meaning it wasn’t expensive, but you haven’t replaced the chain regardless of its wear; a gift perhaps, from a teacher or close friend. I doubt you’ve taken it off in five years. You’re not a serious practitioner, since it’s a poured mold rather than hand carved, and obviously worn constantly, but you know someone who is, or who was. You wouldn’t keep it if the relationship soured, so they probably passed, recently.” Mr. Holmes crossed his arms, mimicking her stance.

“Absolutely no make-up, so you're either a naturalist or haven’t the time for self-modification, and you’ve been travelling, judging by the distinct wrinkle in your coat, which is the newest thing on you, and yet used. A hand-me-down or thrift store purchase; recently acquired, since there is still a blond strand of hair trapped in the top button. The cotton peasant blouse, like the boots, points towards reenactor, especially given the wooden toggles, but the detail on the trim tells me you take it very seriously, along with the rough cut leather belt and loop buckle rather than a stud and hole set. A lifestyle choice, then, rather than a LARPer.”

“You’ve arrived in London this morning, by airplane I’d wager, and yet you haven’t showered today, thus the rose oil, so there must have been a long layover. You aren’t carrying any luggage, besides the shoulder satchel, which, while rather large, can’t hold more than a wallet and a change of clothes, and there was no furniture delivered with your trunk and armoire, a student then, but why a flat when there are dormitories built for such a thing? You must be a private person, unwilling or unable to share space with absolute strangers. Other than your attention to details, you’ve shown no sign of obsessive compulsive disorder or some other such diagnosis to explain why you would prefer to be alone.”

“An orphan then, or a runaway, from an overprotective or maybe even abusive family. Being a shrugger, you’ve probably been told to shut up once too many times, or your opinion has not been relevant for a while, which would explain both the shrugging and the lack of desire for socialization. Given your accent, you’ve spent most of your life growing up amongst cows and tractors, probably in a small, rather backwards set of schools where evolution is a curse word, but you’re much too clever for that trap aren’t you, so you’ve escaped the realm of deer hunting pickup truckers to bask in the beauty and culture of Europe, in search of legitimate intellect.”

“I asked you to be pleasant.” Mr. Watson complained when the tirade was finished. Mr. Holmes directed his icy glare towards his flat-mate.

“That was being pleasant.” He argued “I didn’t even mention her lack of proper underwear, the gypsy bits woven into her hair, or her apparent gimp, which probably has to do with one leg being shorter than the other.”

“No, but you did call her a liar already.” Turning towards Mary, Mr. Watson put his hand on his chest. “I am sorry about all that, he’s a bit of a know-it-all.” Mary shrugged.

“He obviously doesn’t know everything.” She murmured in reply.

“It’s unlikely I got anything wrong.” Mr. Holmes snorted in derision.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Mary continued, unfettered. “I would like to get started unpacking before nightfall.”

“It was a pleasure meeting you.” Mr. Watson mentioned, holding the door open for her.

“You too, Dr. Watson.”

“Please, feel free to call me John.” He countered. “And if you should need any assistance settling in, I’ll make myself available.”

“She’s too young for you, Doctor Watson.” Mr. Holmes drawled in a stagnant tone, disappearing into the kitchen. Raising her eyebrows again, Mary cast Dr. Watson a polite smile before stepping onto the landing, just as Mrs. Hudson arrived with a tray full of china.

“Leaving, dear?” The older woman asked plaintively. “Shall I bring your coffee upstairs?”

“I can take it, ma’am.” Mary told her, holding out her hands.

“Nonsense.” Mrs. Hudson declared. “John, there is a spare tea table and some chairs down in the basement, would you mind terribly bringing them upstairs, the girl ought to have some furniture in that naked flat.” Turning, Mrs. Hudson started up the second story, still balancing the tray. “Come along dear, we’ll get you settled and comfortable for the evening.”

There being nothing that Mary could say to convince her otherwise, she followed the landlady up the stairs. Taking the key and unlocking the third floor flat, she held the door for Mrs. Hudson, who set the tray on the breakfast counter between the living room and the cubby-hole kitchen.

A few minutes later, Dr. Watson appeared with a small round table in one hand and a chair in the other, setting them in the empty living room at the front of the apartment. On the second trip, he carried two more chairs, and arranged the set near the bay window, which faced the backyard, bare except for one plane tree. The small dining set was stained a pleasantly dark burgundy, with white patterned pillows stitched into the seats and a mosaic glass top of the table.

“Thank you very much, Dr. Watson.” Mary murmured, helping Mrs. Hudson set the table with little plates and cups on saucers; there was also a plate full of cookies and candied nuts.

“John.” He reminded her, giving a friendly smile. “I am truly sorry regarding Sherlock’s behavior.”

“He didn’t cause any offense.” She told him honestly. “Frankly, he reminds me a bit of my father, spitting out facts and observation to quell further discussion. It’s a defense mechanism picked up by people who can’t stand to be understood by others.”

“That is very reasonable of you.” He murmured, sounding impressed. “Most are not so patient with him.”  
Mary shrugged again, unbuttoning the front of her peacoat to slip it down her arms. A row of four hooks was mounted beside the front door and she hung the coat there to dry, along with the leather satchel.

“As I said, it’s a defense mechanism. Getting offended will only cause him to continue.”

“If it isn’t too invasive.” John muttered. “Might I ask what he did get wrong?” Mrs. Hudson poured two cups of tea and a mug of hot coffee, setting the little jug of cream in from of Mary as she took the last empty seat, with her back to the window.

“I’m afraid that is a bit invasive.” She murmured in reply, tucking her head shyly. “Unfortunately, most of his observations were made based on his knowledge of the world, and his rules of reality simply do not apply to me.” Tilting his head, John regarded her curiously, but received no further explanation.


	2. Wounded Hand Wounded Pride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John attempts to make friends with the neighbor while Sherlock misbehaves. Also the beginning of a real plot line.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a purely self indulgent piece of art, and will eventually (hopefully) include all of my fandom fantasies :) Hope you don't hate that.
> 
> Sherlock (and all others that I may incorporate by association) belong to BBC (and the various others that own what I have incorporated by association)
> 
> The SCA is real (go ahead and ask me about it); my version of it is based on my assistance in the development of the Sisters Grinn Filklore Fairy Tales owned by Raven Ai Briarkith. http://sistersgrinn.wordpress.com/
> 
> This is purely a fanfiction; the only purpose is my amusement. It will not hurt my feelings if you tell me whats not canon, or not properly British. All criticisms are taken with a grain of salt but I would LOVE to know what I did get wrong. This doubles as an exercise of my talents and I can only improve through being made to recognize my weaknesses. Thanks in advance for any beta reading and assistance.

Having met the new young upstairs renter on a Wednesday afternoon, it was strange that neither Sherlock, nor John, nor even Mrs. Hudson had heard from the girl again until Saturday evening of the same week, when she came down the stairs to sign for the delivery of a bedroom set. Mrs. Hudson called her down when the door rang, and the young woman appeared at the bottom stair a minute later.

John and Sherlock were just returning from a crime scene, having been contacted by Lestrade to consult on a double murder near the university that ended up being nothing more interesting than a random bit of violence regarding some lottery winnings. Even with the steadily shorter days, the sun was barely touching the roof tops and Mary stood on the front step, having just handed the clipboard back to the wiry teen in his grey polo uniform.

“Good evening, miss Mary.” John greeted her, tucking his cane, which was really more of a decoration at this point, behind him and turning his shoulder to let the young man pass before he and Sherlock took the stairs. “Finally getting that flat furnished?”

“Yes.” She murmured, smiling sardonically as she glanced at the ground and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “Good evening John, Mr. Holmes.” Coming to stand on the step beside her, John caught at her hand as it dropped.

“What happened?” He asked, seeing the poorly bandaged burn, which covered most of the back of her right hand; tiny polyps suggested it was closer to second degree than first. Pulling away quickly, she slipped her hand beneath the hooded shawl she wore and scowled at him.

“I had an unfortunate disagreement with the oven.” Mary mumbled, blush painting her cheeks beneath a splash of freckles.

“It looks rather painful, and with that rough treatment it will be infected before long.” John mentioned, while Sherlock brushed passed them with an impatient sigh. “If you’re comfortable with the idea, I can bandage it more properly upstairs.”

“You might be surprised to learn I’m fairly experienced with treating burns.” Mary mumbled in reply, still trying to be polite but marred by wounded pride. Staring purposefully at the road, she watched the two delivery men pull the first bit of dark wood furniture from the back of the truck.

“I’m sure you are.” John agreed, recognizing her stinging pride. “Those two will be a few more minutes, and we can watch their progress from my living room with the door open.” Mary glanced at him, a curious look on her face. “The burn cream I keep has some pain killer in it as well.”

“If you’re going to be so insistent.” She muttered quietly, quirking a brow at him.

“I am a doctor after all.” John added, his tone intentionally serious. “Come on, perhaps we can irritate Sherlock a bit before dark.”

Rolling her eyes, Mary followed him up the stairs and into the open living room. John left the door gaped to watch the delivery men, and set himself in one of the plush chairs in front of the fireplace with a handled toolbox full of different medicinal trinkets.

“Have you found any chance of employment yet?” John asked, setting a mug of coffee in front of the other chair. “Mrs. Hudson mentioned you were looking.” Mary smirked, amused by the building-wide gossip.

“No, unfortunately, being this late in the season, most positions are filled by students.”

“You’re not a student, then?” Holding out his hand, he waited for Mary to sit and place her wounded hand on his so he could unwrap the offensive bandaging.

“No. Although, I suppose that is the next logical step.”

“Next logical step in what?” John asked, using some warm water to unstick the cotton. “If it isn’t intrusive.”

“It is intrusive.” Mary told him. “But, not offensively.” John glanced up at her, giving a half-smirk. “Because of my involuntary relocation I now need to seek out the appropriate education and career to support myself.”

“Involuntary? Haven’t you had a chance before now to attend school?”

“I’m afraid it’s all really complicated.” She murmured sadly. “Suffice to say before now I didn’t need to attend school.”

“How will you manage financially, with the rent and tuition?”

“I have a sponsor, whom I’ve never met. Some sort of professor, an old relative on my mother’s side. He’s been dealing with all of my financial needs, and I don’t even have the means to thank him.”

“I’m sure just telling him you appreciate it would be enough for now.”

“No, I mean I have no way of even contacting him. So far, he’s just been setting up accounts and sending me letters with no return address.” John gave her a dubious look, and began wrapping her hand carefully in an elastic bandage. “I know how fishy that sounds.” She muttered. “But given the state of things, I haven’t had many other options, and he did find me through the society.”

“What society?” He asked, using a small aluminum clasp to finish the binding.

“Oh,” Mary blushed, staring awkwardly at the floor. “The Society for Creative Anachronism, or at least what’s left of it.” She explained after a moment. “That’s the reenactment group that Mr. Holmes presumed I belong to.”

“I knew it!” The now familiar voice announced disdainfully from the next room.

“The difference between reenactment and anachronism is simple but important, which is where most of his mistakes lie.” She added in a condescending tone.

“Ridiculous.” Mr. Holmes interjected, emerging from the kitchen with a snake corpse wrapped around his arm. “The difference between reenactment and anachronism has no effect on the fact that your clothes and other attire are hand-made, and it certainly doesn’t affect your status as a shrugger. I’d be sincerely surprised to find something in my assessment that can be deemed as truly incorrect.”

“Well then, shall we start from the beginning?” Mary murmured spitefully. “For instance, Mr. Holmes, Mary Moore is my real name, except I have had no cause to use it since I was sixteen. While my clothes are handmade, they were done mostly by my mother, a professional tailor, because I haven’t the slightest skill with needles. The leather bag, the belt, and the shoes were done by my father, primarily an armorer, who is proficient with leather tooling, but has very little time to dedicate to personal adornment.”

John was rather surprised when Sherlock remained silent.

“While I am not a practitioner of witchcraft, I do practice paganism, similar to Wicca, as my chosen theological course.” Mary stated calmly, turning a bored gaze towards the pompous fool. “And the pentacle was given to me by a lover, who poured it himself, being a self-trained pewter mold carver, and who cannot currently be confirmed dead or alive.”

“Likely he’s no longer interested.” Mr. Holmes mumbled tonelessly, turning the snake’s head to look at him, Mary continued without hesitation, not even registering the jab.

“I don’t wear makeup because I don’t know how, the coat is stolen, I arrived in London on Monday by boat because the thought of flying in a speeding hunk of metal was too daunting for my first trip across an ocean. I bathed Tuesday morning in rose oil, not used it instead, because I am allergic to the sulfates that you people insist on shoving into anything that lathers or foams. The reason I wasn’t carrying any real luggage and there was no furniture was because I had none to bring, and the trunks that were delivered here are gifts from my sponsor, whom I have yet to meet. I’m not a student yet, and prefer to be alone rather than subjected to the ridicule often presented by anyone who doesn’t understand my lifestyle.”

“You stole an ugly old peacoat?” Mr. Holmes snarled.

“I suppose the final question would be orphan or runaway.” Mary ignored the comment, much to his chagrin. “And that’s where it becomes quite unusual, you see because I am neither, as far as I know. Up until three months ago, I was happily enjoying the company of my loving and emotionally healthy family, and through a series of confounding events, I find myself far away from home and unable to reach anyone previously known to me. Despite my Pennsylvania Dutch accent, I didn’t grow up anywhere that I can point out to you on the globe, and the only schooling I have ever had has been by my mother, the people in my community, and some amusing courses I attended at Pennsic University.”

“So you’re a home schooled pagan history junkie.” Mr. Holmes muttered dismissively, puckering his lips at the snake and wiggling its head. “Therefore, I wasn’t mistaken, but there is always something. Who steals ugly peacoats?”

“Sherlock, put that away.” John told him sternly, his mind spinning with the details Mary had revealed. “Don’t you have something less harmful you could be working on?”

Rolling his eyes so hard that his head lolled backwards, Mr. Holmes disappeared around the corner, emerging a few minutes later with a handful of orange yarn and two long, aluminum knitting needles. Dropping onto the lounger, which sat just beside their front door, he started clicking the needles together loudly.

“Sherlock.” John’s tone threatened.

“I’m knitting, John, don’t bother me now.”

“You’re not knitting!” John stood, his voice frustrated as he stomped towards his fully grown adult flatmate. Mary had to keep from smiling at the childish banter; they were rather adorable together.

“All the furniture is upstairs, miss.” The wiry teenaged delivery man announced, his head poised awkwardly toward the open door without entering uninvited. “Thought you ought to know we pulled the door closed behind us, and we’ll be leaving now.”

“Thank you very much.” Mary stood, carefully avoiding her newly bandaged hand, and made her way towards the stairs while the young man disappeared out the front door.

“Miss Mary.” John stopped her at the second step. “If you don’t want to continue the argument with your oven, you’re more than welcome to join us for dinner.”

“Oh yes,” Mr. Holmes drawled. “And regale us with further examples of your maleficently twisted, anachronistic loopholes.”

“I think I might.” Mary answered coyly, her tone falsely sweet. “If only to sour Mr. Holmes’ evening.” Without further discussion, she climbed the rest of the stairs and vanished behind her closed door.

“How does it feel,” Sherlock asked quietly, as her door clicked closed. “to know she’d rather spite me than enjoy your company?”

“Oh, shut up.” John growled.

“I told you, she’s too young for you.” Tossing the yarn beside him, Sherlock stood and stalked once more into the kitchen, his long legs eating the distance in moments. “I’m bored!” He shouted from his room at the back of the flat, not a moment later.

“Go fish for trout in the tub.” John shouted in reply, slamming the door behind him as he stomped down the stairs and out the front of the building. Given that Sherlock never did anything remotely close to grocery shopping, it would do them both a bit of good to have something worth cooking in the flat.


	3. Dinner Interrupted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a purely self indulgent piece of art, and will eventually (hopefully) include all of my fandom fantasies :) Hope you don't hate that.
> 
> Sherlock (and all others that I may incorporate by association) belong to BBC (and the various others that own what I have incorporated by association)
> 
> The SCA is real (go ahead and ask me about it); my version of it is based on my assistance in the development of the Sisters Grinn Filklore Fairy Tales owned by Raven Ai Briarkith. http://sistersgrinn.wordpress.com/
> 
> This is purely a fanfiction; the only purpose is my amusement. It will not hurt my feelings if you tell me whats not canon, or not properly British. All criticisms are taken with a grain of salt but I would LOVE to know what I did get wrong. This doubles as an exercise of my talents and I can only improve through being made to recognize my weaknesses. Thanks in advance for any beta reading and assistance.

There were mangled skeletons positioned gingerly in the oven, a jar of floating squid eggs in the microwave, the skin of some pale green creature hanging from the wire rack of the toaster oven, petri dishes stacked twenty high filling the majority of the refrigerator, not to mention the vials full of viscous liquid and unmarked jars of powder littering the counter and pantry.

Having arrived home with two arms full of paper bag grocery abundance, John was infuriated to discover that the kitchen had been modified well beyond use, probably during the hour that he had been gone. Fortunately, with a landlady as sweet as theirs, he was still able to prepare something akin to a proper dinner, with a great deal of assistance from Mrs. Hudson and her kitchen on the ground floor.

Sherlock stayed well out of the way, and, to John’s relief, relatively out of trouble altogether. Given her lone wolf habits, Mary did not arrive early enough to find John quick footing up the stairs with his baking platter of roasted chicken, or during the second trip with the bowl of potatoes and greens. In fact, neither Mary nor Sherlock arrived for dinner until John had checked his watch for the fifth time only to remember he hadn’t told either of them when they were expected.

Fortunately, it seemed that the young upstairs tenant had followed her nose, and managed to arrive before the meal was entirely cold, wearing a very pleasant costume involving a pale yellow dress beneath a deep forest green sleeveless surcoat, both of which hung past her ankles and were belted at the waist with the same loop arrangement as the first time they had met. Tiny stitching around the edges of both pieces resembled a repeating celtic knot design that was also reflected in leather band with which she bound her hair, now ruthlessly coiled and gleaming with the remaining dampness of a bath.

“I hope I’m not terribly late.” Mary murmured when he opened the door to her tentative knock.

“One cannot be late to something that was never properly scheduled.” John drawled in a self deprecating manner, holding out his arm to invite her inside. Since he, and Sherlock, never kept with proper meals, there was no formal dining area in their flat. Instead, John had cleared and set the wooden desk at the window, which did have just enough room for the three of them to eat, should his flatmate ever emerge from his lair.

“I suppose I’ve offended him.” Mary murmured, after they had run out of pleasant neighborly conversation to fill the silence between spoons scraping on plates. John shrugged, glancing at the third chair, which still sat empty.

“He’s really just throwing a temper tantrum, which stems primarily from not being able to fully understand the explanations you gave for his missed deductions.” John popped a salted green bean into his mouth, chewing while he contemplated. “You’re a bit of an enigma at the moment.”

“It’s not intentional.” She assured him. “To be honest, a great deal of this world is an enigma to me as well. I was given a mobile phone this week and I haven’t even managed to wake it.” John watched her in silence for a long moment, utterly confused.

“The things you say, sometimes I wonder if you're odd or if I’m dim.” A look of hurt darkened her face while she set her fork down. “I didn’t mean it rudely.” John explained in a hurried tone. “But you must admit, it’s a bit strange, if only because you haven’t been clear.” Mary sighed, propping her elbow on the edge of the table to rest her chin against her fist.

“Some of it cannot be explained clearly.” She murmured sullenly, unable to meet his gaze for a moment. “And I’m concerned you won’t believe me.”

“Oh,” John almost scoffed, attempting humor to put her at ease. “I have believed some rather unbelievable things in my time.” Mary quirked a brow at him, not quite convinced. “I can be sworn into silence, or morally bound never to mock you.”

“If you’re going to be so insistent.” She muttered quietly, smirking.

“I am a doctor after all.” He grinned sardonically, widening his eyes to make her laugh. Then, Mary took a deep breath, as if preparing herself, before she started to explain.

“The Society for Creative Anachronism, as can be found in any recorded history, was established on May 1, 1966. Like any good conspiracy, they have a public cover story of medieval reenactment and the enjoyment of ‘the current middle ages’ as they continue to protest the 20th century, but the real reason behind their development was the first appearance of the barrier between Mundania and the Known World.”

“Barrier? What’s that?” John asked tentatively, suddenly wondering what he had promised.

“To be perfectly honest, no one really knows.” Mary muttered. “Some sort of ephemeral wall. It’s been called the Barrier since it appeared, and the founding SCAdians were the first to cross it and find themselves in another world.”

“SCAdians?”

“Members of the SCA, obviously.”

“Oh, quite.” John cleared his throat. “So, this other world…”

“It was only ever collectively called the Known World, and over a few decades of growth and immigration, SCAdians developed their own set of governing bodies, separating the large expanse of wilderness into logical Kingdoms, electing leaders by rule of arms. Forced largely by some technological difficulties, the Known World grew to mimic Mundania’s middle ages.”

“Technological difficulties? What’s Mundania?” John asked, and Mary gave him an inpatient look before answering.

“Mundania is the SCAdian word for the world in which we currently reside.”

“The real, I mean, this world?” John mentioned, hoping she wouldn’t take offense. Mary shrugged instead.

“Yes, I s’pose. The reason I say technological difficulties is that nothing machine made could cross the border without disintegrating.” She explained quietly. “Even machine woven fabric would dust like moth wings.

“That’s fairly incredible.” John murmured, meaning it literally.

“I realize.” Mary whispered in reply. “But for a while longer, just pretend that you do believe me.” John nodded silently. “This past year, a war broke out between the kingdom heads and the civilian population. To make a very long story very short, a lot of people died fighting, hid, or fled to Mundania. The Society for Creative Anachronism as it exists in Mundania offered asylum, acquiring new names, places to live, and sponsors to help support the influx of additional people.”

“Is that how you got here?” John interrupted; Mary shook her head.

“As I mentioned earlier, three months ago something happened, and no one is really sure what it was. It seemed like the apocalypse; earthquakes, storms, fires, random deaths of livestock and crops, whole castles, cities, and forests falling under their own weight. The entirety of the world seemed intent on pulling itself apart. On my last day, I was holed up with my family and my fiancé in our storm shelter, trying to fall asleep ignoring the wind and rain, the screaming animals, the crumbling cliffs and flooding. The next thing I know I’m lying face down in a field of corn in the middle of Kansas.”

John tried not to smile, just in case that wasn’t an intentional reference to the well-known children’s novel and Broadway musical.

“You mean that literally.” He mumbled instead; she nodded sadly.

“I was found by state troopers on the side of the interstate, it was the first time I had ever seen a car. I was arrested—sort of; finger printed, and handed over at the Society’s request to get settled with my new identity. As it turns out, I was born in a Mundane hospital in Nebraska, which made it easy to find documents, though I’ve never known anything besides Calontir and the Known World.”

“Calontir?”

“The kingdom which lays equivalently at the center of the United States.” Mary sighed. “It’s an old Anglo-Saxon word meaning ‘heart land’.”

“Very clever.”

“Yes, and now I’ll probably never see it again, but instead remain at the mercy and kindness of strangers in a world I’ve never known, living a life I never wanted.” Mary glanced at him, pausing for a moment before she whispered. “There’s only really two things that you can choose to do now.”

“Offer a medical solution, or accept an altered reality.” John mumbled in reply, unsure of which he was more seriously considering. She nodded slowly, watching his face for any indication, though she didn’t seem afraid, only wary, steeling herself against yet another rejection. This wouldn’t be the first time she had been shunned for her story.

“I don’t suppose you have any tangible evidence?” John inquired nonchalantly, picking at his food once more in hopes that it would turn back into the comfortable evening they had been enjoying.

“Apart from my belongings, no.” Mary answered, resting her mouth against her overlapping fingers. “Or perhaps the thirty thousand other SCAdians who were dropped into Mundania. Many of them are replicating the Known World in a sort of role playing atmosphere; that’s where the reenactment aspect has become popular, but they still remember. The Society has suggested we avoid talking about what actually happened, since Mundanes rarely believed us when we could show them the Barrier.”

“The barrier’s gone then? Permanently.” Mary nodded.

“As far as anyone can tell.” She explained. “From the information the Society has been offering, it seems that only SCAdians physically born in Mundania have been trapped here by the, what to call it, separation? I suppose.”

“Can you be certain it’s just been separated?” John mused quietly, wondering if he should finish the thought, or if perhaps she already had.

“There’s no way to be certain. It seems that no one has been able to re-establish contact, let alone make another crossing.” She sighed, rubbing her hands down her face. “I can only hope that they still exist on the other side.”

A buzzing sound filled the silence as the two of them stared contemplatively at their plates and half-finished meals. Embarrassed by the interruption, John reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out his cell phone, flipping it open to read a text from Sherlock.

‘Thor Bridge promptly.’

Without any further explanation, John presumed he was expected for the onset of a new case, and though the simple thought of adventure, or even the next chance to watch Sherlock reason his way through a riddle, was titillating, John felt a tinge of guilt knowing he would need to excuse himself early, perhaps immediately, thus cementing in Miss Mary Moore’s mind that he had rejected her, as well as her improbable tale of woe.

Alternatively, he mused for a moment, Sherlock was well aware of the invitation which John had extended to their new neighbor, and had decided not to arrive at all, let alone on time. A delay in John’s arrival was just the sort of passive aggressive punishment the deduction artist deserved.

Even if there was a mystery to be solved, Sherlock knew full well that dinner was still under way, and was probably intentionally trying to whisk the old soldier away from the pleasantry of real company. Therefore, an even more satisfying punishment for rebuffing John’s evening plans would be to invite the young lady along. Deciding that was precisely what he wanted to do, John could only hope Miss Mary Moore would be amused by the prospect, rather than offended; there was only one way to find out.

“I’ve just received an invitation from Sherlock, asking that we join him on Thor Bridge.” Given the fact that Sherlock knew John was currently in the company of a young woman, it could be presumed the only consulting detective in the world had intended for both of them to come.

“Whatever for?” She asked, more curious than anything. “It’s too dark and cold for a picnic.”

“There is a good chance he’s been drawn into another mystery to be solved.” John told her honestly. “I normally accompany him for various reasons, and I think you might be amused to watch him work. Based on your first encounter with him, you might even be able to help.” Anticipation of a new case had started to fill his blood with adrenalin, and his leg began to bounce impatiently while she considered the invitation.

“I’ll just run upstairs for my cloak then.” Mary murmured after a few more moments of hesitation. John had to keep himself from sighing with relief, and picked up the remnants of their meal while she took the stairs on quick and quiet feet.


	4. Soup and Suspicions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Mary accompany Sherlock on an apparently pointless evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a purely self indulgent piece of art, and will eventually (hopefully) include all of my fandom fantasies :) Hope you don't hate that.
> 
> Sherlock (and all others that I may incorporate by association) belong to BBC (and the various others that own what I have incorporated by association)
> 
> The SCA is real (go ahead and ask me about it); my version of it is based on my assistance in the development of the Sisters Grinn Filklore Fairy Tales owned by Raven Ai Briarkith. http://sistersgrinn.wordpress.com/
> 
> This is purely a fanfiction; the only purpose is my amusement. It will not hurt my feelings if you tell me whats not canon, or not properly British. All criticisms are taken with a grain of salt but I would LOVE to know what I did get wrong. This doubles as an exercise of my talents and I can only improve through being made to recognize my weaknesses. Thanks in advance for any beta reading and assistance.

Only a few minutes later, the two of them converged at the front door and took a left onto Bakers street, walking briskly in the cool night air while street lamps shining down cast double shadows. Mary had pulled a dark hooded cloak around her shoulders, with a brass clasp hooking the ends together just below her chin. Additionally, John noticed, she had clipped a rather large looking sword and sheath onto her belt, as well as a leather pouch.

“Do you always carry a sword?” He asked, hoping his tone sounded casual. Unconsciously, she placed her hand on the hilt, her mind eased by the surety of its presence.

“Only when going out after dark.” She murmured, by way of an explanation. “In cities I don’t know, with men I’ve only just met.” Now she was teasing him, John realized, and he smiled shyly, staring at his shoes as they walked.

“What sort of work do you and Mr. Holmes do?” Mary asked after a few long minutes; they had passed more than half a dozen cross streets, but were still a fair way from Thor Bridge. With his leg starting to bother him, psychosomatic or not, he was surprised to find her unfettered by the brisk pace.

“Well, we, I mean, he is, ah, sort of a consultant.” John muttered. “A detective, I guess, a consulting detective.” Mary tilted her head at him, casting him a curious sideways glance.

“Like, a spy?”

“No, no.” John scratched the back of his head. “He uses reason and logic, as well as an incredible ability in observation and a great deal of knowledge regarding very specific things, to deduce answers and conclusions that the police and other investigative services cannot otherwise reach.”

“Like the conclusions he made about me upon my arrival?” She asked in a slightly condescending tone. “How ever does he keep business?” John shrugged helplessly; perhaps this wasn’t as good of an idea as he had originally thought.

“He doesn’t charge for service.” He mumbled, knowing how it sounded. “It’s more of a hobby for Sherlock than employment.” Shaking her head, Mary sighed heavily.

“Did he tell you what sort of mystery it was?” She asked after a few minutes in near silence, while their shoes slapped against pavement. In flat-soled canvas dancing shoes, she made a great deal less noise than his thick-soled boots.

“No.”

“Is it dangerous?”

“There’s a chance.” John answered her honestly, his blood flushing against his skin as he remembered all the intense moments he had already shared with his eccentric flatmate. “Are you frightened?” He teased her a bit, becoming giddy on the subtle rush of adrenalin. Giving him a slanted glance, Mary shook her head, smiling slowly.

“Not with my sword on my belt.”

“Having a weapon and using it…” John trailed off when she chuckled. “What could be funny?” He demanded, his tone light. “You might be frightened when the moment of danger actually happens.”

“I doubt it.” Mary grinned coyly.

“Why?”

“In the Known World,” She murmured ominously. “Violence is not frequently prosecuted. We fend for our own.”

“A dangerous place, this world of yours?” He inquired innocently, still a bit unsure of whether or not he believed her story.

“The technological shortcomings I mentioned had allowed some crimes to be carried out using the Known World as a catalyst and sanctuary.” She explained shortly. “SCAdians, spread out as we are, were told and taught to protect ourselves from harm, as well as given the rights necessary to do so; unlike here, where they make firearms illegal for everyone but the police.”

“Isn’t that a bit dangerous, with everyone walking around holding sharp steel on their hips?”

“I don’t think so.” Mary answered, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “If everyone is armed, and properly trained, less are willing to cause conflict. Honestly, the world becomes more polite.”

“With the threat of assault hanging over their shoulders.” John countered, a bit sarcastically.

“It is the threat of punishment that prevents undesirable behavior.” She responded immediately, smirking at him like a predator. “A child will press until he discovers boundaries, drawn out like a map in the words and discomforts allotted by his adults each time he misbehaves. Think of any diplomat and you’ll realize he is successful only when the threat of war encourages compromise.”

“What of personal morals?” John argued. “The average person knows it’s wrong to kill people.”

“No.” Mary disagreed succinctly. “The current example of an average person is taught that it is wrong to kill people, in the same manner he is taught not to bite his mother’s nipple, or push classmates off the swings.”

“So morality is relative.” He murmured, realizing he had been tricked into a debate by the innocent little maiden.

“As opposed to morality being absolute, written in stone?” She asked quietly. “Yes. There is evidence throughout history that any code of morals is defined by the majority of the affected society. Which is why it was perfectly logical to the Vikings that they should rape, murder, and pillage, but considered ill-mannered by the Celts.” Tilting her head towards him again, she smiled. “You English have been considered ill-mannered before, by the ones you’ve dragged into civilization.”

“Do you change your morals based on the company you keep?” John mentioned uncertainly. The whole conversation felt like a game of cat and mouse, and he suddenly wished that their destination were closer.

“Obviously.” Mary answered quietly, noticing his discomfort. “You see, now that I am a resident of Mundania, in an apparently permanent manner, it is necessary for me to conform to the laws and social structure of this world in exchange for the protection and support allotted by my providers.”

“The child seeking his boundaries.” John murmured.

“Or the diplomat threatened with war.” She countered in a soft and saddened voice, causing a sliver of cold to dance up his spine.

For a while longer, they walked in silence, and John was just about to ask another conversation starting question when they came within sight of Thor Bridge. Despite John’s assumption of a crime scene, Sherlock stood alone at the center of the bridge, completely still, his elbows resting on the waist-high stone wall.

“Good evening Mr. Holmes.” Mary called out in a friendly manner as they stepped onto the curved stone of the bridge. Sherlock did not turn to face them, so focused he was on the stonework and the flowing water below.

“What is she doing here?” He asked as if the answer didn’t interest him; in the same manner one might ask a passing colleague about his day, when there isn’t enough time to acknowledge the answer.

“You were well aware of my plans for the evening.” John told him in a cold tone. “Any invitation sent to me is thus assumed to be extended to my guests as well.” Sherlock scoffed, returning his attention to the stonework, and using a tiny square magnifying glass to inspect details.

“What are you looking for?” Mary asked with genuine curiosity. Sherlock glanced up at her, narrowing his eyes as he contemplated her, or perhaps the question, or simply the swirling vortex of information that was his conscious mind. John dragged a hand down his face, hoping the rest of the evening would pass smoothly, and knowing it probably would not.

“If you must know,” Sherlock began, sounding as pompous as ever. “I’ve been contacted by a rather distressed man who claims that his housekeeper and governess is being held at trial for the murder of his wife. He believes the woman is innocent, and has asked me to prove her thusly before his children are scarred by the ordeal, though I must admit the majority of the evidence is against her.”

“Are you going to fill us in at all?” John asked when the stubborn fool failed to elaborate, having returned his attention to the stones once more. Straightening, Sherlock regarded him with the same narrowed eyes, still contemplating.

“I’m a bit starved, aren’t you?” He asked, seemingly at random. Strolling towards them, he took Mary’s hand and tucked it into the bent crook of his elbow, leading her across the street. “There is a rather pleasant little bistro not far from here, which hosts a quaint menu of soups, and they serve coffee. Quite proper for a cold late night like this.”

Mary glanced over her shoulder to give John a confused look, but all he could do was shrug and follow, jogging a bit to catch up with the brisk pace.

Upon arrival the three of them were seated in a corner booth, most likely at Sherlock’s request, and Mary quickly took the seat with her back to the wall, which was surprising since it had a much thinner view of the street through the window than the other side. Sherlock, having walked ahead of John, seated himself beside her, forcing the sour faced doctor to sit across from them.

“Now can you bring us up to speed?” John asked just before a short young man in dress shirt and apron arrived.

“Good evening again, Mr. Holmes.” The young man drawled, apparently excited by his proximity.

“Good evening, Timothy.” Sherlock replied noncommittally. “We’ll need three cups. I shall be having the usual hot pot, and a jug of your black slosh for the American girl. For dinner, a bowl of Oxtail for me, she ought to try the London Particular, and my friend will have the Cock-a-Leekie.”

Having written nothing down, the young man - Timothy - disappeared behind a swinging door that apparently led to the kitchen. John stared after him, aghast, while Mary scanned the menu, having ignored the presumptuous git while he decided all of their orders.

“I don’t like cock-a-leekie.” John muttered, knowing it wouldn’t do him any good.

“Well, you’ve never tried it here.” Sherlock argued succinctly, before turning to face Mary. “I think you’ll enjoy the London Particular. It basically consists of split peas and ham.” Quirking an eyebrow, she gave him a slanted glance, hardly looking up from her menu.

“If I may ask, Mr. Holmes, what makes you think I eat either of those things?”

“As a medieval reenactor, you must be interested in eating more early era meals, particularly foods which can be easily kept for longer periods of time by being salted, stewed, or candied.”

“I’m not a reenactor.” Mary mentioned. “And ham doesn’t keep in soup.”

“Can we please just discuss the case?” John interrupted, before Sherlock pushed hard enough to earn her sword tip at his throat. “What did this distressed man tell you?” Sighing, Sherlock turned until he faced forward again, resting his elbows on the table to prop his chin atop his fists.

“The most basic facts are:” Sherlock began. “The wife was found dead on Thor Bridge approximately seven weeks ago, with a single bullet wound to the forehead. She was dressed rather fancifully, as if attending a dinner date rather than grocery shopping, with a decorated hat and expensive bag, neither of which were missing, thus eliminating robbery. Also, clutched in her hand was a written invitation allegedly from the housekeeping governess, though she vehemently denies writing such a note, asking the wife to meet at Thor Bridge fifteen minutes after the presumed time of death, which by liver temperature was recorded to be approximately 11:30 in the evening.”

“Rather incriminating.” John remarked.

“Yes, but to further the incrimination, the bullet came from a handheld pistol, whose twin was found in the housekeeping governess’s armoire, and retained evidence of being recently fired at the time it was found. Though, it was really only the distressed man’s insistence that he bought them as a pair to prove that there are in fact two of them.”

“Why would she keep it?” Mary asked quietly, still not looking up as she continued to browse the menu. “If she had just committed murder, and a rather coldly calculated one if the note is to be believed, why would she go all the way home and hide it in her own room?”

“Obviously, she didn’t.” Sherlock muttered. “The distinctly different striations of the bullet pulled from the victim’s skull separate the one found in the armoire from the murder weapon, which remains missing despite multiple searches of the house, the bridge, and surrounding areas. Unfortunately, since the body was found the next morning when an informal search was sent out for Mrs. Distressed, the evidence collected from the house and family was nearly irrelevant and otherwise uselessly bereft of any gunshot residue or blood; and, because I have only recently been invited to assist in this matter by the desperate Mr. Distressed, since it seemed like such a simple case for the police, I have missed most of my opportunities to find anything of remote pertinence.”

“Is it a wash then?” John asked, teasing Sherlock by mocking his excuses. “Obviously the police have taken care of it. Shall we just totter home in time for breakfast?”

Timothy reappeared at that moment to set two steaming kettles in front of them; tea for Sherlock and John, and a small pot of coffee for Mary, along with a bowl of individually packaged cream buckets and packets of white sugar.

“Soup will be out in a minute.” Timothy told them, smiling politely before vanishing once more into the kitchen. Turning to look over his shoulder, John was surprised to find the entire diner empty, even the breakfast bar had been drained and scrubbed for the night.

“How do you find these places?” He muttered to himself, knowing he wouldn’t receive a proper answer anyway.

“Who did Mr. Distressed say he gave the twin to?” Mary inquired at the same time, finally setting down her menu to doctor her coffee, dumping and discarding more than half of the creamer cups.

“Now, isn’t that a proper question.” Sherlock murmured, smirking, and turned slightly towards her, as if to see how she reacted. “To his wife, for the purpose of administering her own self defense.”

“She still had her purse, you said, and was dressed primly.” Sherlock nodded. “Then was she sexually assaulted?” Still watching her, Sherlock’s smirk widened into a legitimate smile; John stared a bit, wondering what his game was.

“There was no evidence of any assault, or attempted self defense.” He answered, his tone somehow more pompous than a moment ago. “Not even bruises or skin beneath her fingernails.”

“Then she shot herself.” Mary told him with conviction, leaning down to sip the foamy head off her creamy coffee mug.

“What?” John asked, dropping his eyebrows in confusion.

“Why would you think that?” Sherlock asked; turning so only one elbow rested on the table, he propped his head up sideways on his open palm.

“If she was shot with her own gun and there’s no evidence of assault, self defense, or robbery, it must have been self inflicted.” Mary explained quietly, sounding as if she held no interest at all, or was reading it out loud from a newspaper.

“We don’t know that it was her gun though, do we?” Sherlock mused. “Because the actual murder weapon cannot be found, and we are only aware that it is the same size and caliber as the supposed twin found in the housekeeping governess’ armoire. Not to mention, the gunshot residue stains on her hand, sleeve, and the front of her coat, suggest that the gun was not in her hand, but at least three feet away from her when it fired, which would be an incredible feat for someone with such stubby arms.”

John tilted his head, confused. Sherlock never mused, he deduced. There had to be some foul game, probably leading the poor girl on a spiteful journey of suggested deduction only to prove her wrong when he revealed his last card.

“With only Mr. Distressed’s word that there was a twin, but also evidence suggesting there was an assailant.” She continued, still casually conversational. “Having hired you, it appears he’s trying quite desperately to protect the nanny, isn’t he? What for?”

“Why, to safeguard the sanity of his wee babes, lest they be petrified by the thought of two maternal figures disappearing from their lives at once.” Sherlock wiggled his eyebrows, and John rolled his eyes, growing tired of the dialogue. “It seems his children love their housekeeping governess, perhaps more than their own mother.”

“The children love her, or Mr. Distressed does?”

“Precisely.” Sherlock exclaimed. “Or perhaps, ‘accurately’ is the proper word.” Making a sound as close to giggling as he could, Sherlock poured himself a cup of tea just in time for Timothy to pop through the door for a third time, now carrying a tray laden with three soup bowls. After placing the bowls in front of them, the young man was back in the kitchen before the door had a chance to stop swinging.

“John.” Sherlock whispered to him, hardly moving. “Ask Mary to trade soup with you.”

“Why?” John asked automatically, his tone incredulous. Mary turned and glanced at Sherlock, her expression just as confused as he was.

“Do it.” The lout insisted, casually stirring his steaming bowl with his spoon. Sighing, John turned to look at Mary, and widened his eyes as if to beg her to play along. Her lips puckered a bit, indicative of her contemplation.

“Miss Mary, would you mind terribly switching soup bowls with me?” Whether she took the hint, or legitimately didn’t want to eat the London Particular, he couldn’t have guessed. Silently, she pushed her bowl across the table and held her hand out for his.

“Now, Mary,” Sherlock grinned devilishly, sliding his eyes towards the kitchen door without turning his head. “Make sure you let it cool for a moment.”

Her eyebrows drew together, beginning to become offended by his nagging desire to manipulate them. From nervous energy alone, John unwrapped his spoon, stirred up the split-pea soup and took a large bite, chewing quickly while he stared at the table.

Mary took the time to open a small package of crackers, breaking them into crumbs and dumping them into her soup. By the time she had stirred the crackers in, unwrapped her spoon, and lifted a bite towards her mouth to blow on it, the power suddenly flickered out, leaving them in darkness.

“How unfortunate.” Sherlock murmured, though from his tone John could tell he was smirking again.

At that moment, Timothy smashed through the door and quickly cleared their table, even going so far as to pull the laden spoon from Mary’s hand and drop it into his bussing tub. After explaining that there was an emergency power failure and the restaurant needed to be emptied as a safety precaution, Timothy chased them to the front door, locking it behind them and vanishing for the final time into the darkened kitchen.

“Well,” Sherlock murmured, stretching his arm to glance at his watch beneath his coat jacket. “We’ve an appointment with Mr. Distressed tomorrow morning, so off home then. We ought to get some rest before daybreak.” Once again, probably just to frustrate John, Sherlock took Mary’s hand and tucked it into the crook of his elbow, before setting off towards their flat.

Following silently behind them, John burned with curiosity regarding nearly every moment of the evening, including everything from the legitimate case that had brought them here, to the dramatic end of their soup excursion. It also bothered him, only a bit, that Mary was allowing Sherlock to bully her in such a manner, although perhaps she was accustomed to being escorted that way, having grown up in the middle ages.

Was he really starting to believe her?

“What happened there?” John asked, pulling their flat door closed when he heard Mary’s door shut and latched in the otherwise silent house.

“What do you mean?” Sherlock murmured innocently, setting himself at the desk with a pile of scribble covered papers.

“Don’t play.” John whined, sitting in the red velvet chair and picking up one of his favorite books. “You know I am wondering why you made me switch bowls with her just to be chased out of the restaurant before she could eat my soup. There must have been something amiss.”

“Boring.” Sherlock murmured, the quirk of his mouth revealing that to be false.

“Liar.” John muttered, flipping his book open to the marker. They were both contented to ignore eachother for the rest of the evening.


	5. Mr. Distressed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our three companions interview Mr. Distressed, tot around his house, and then sod off for the evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a purely self indulgent piece of art, and will eventually (hopefully) include all of my fandom fantasies :) Hope you don't hate that.
> 
> Sherlock (and all others that I may incorporate by association) belong to BBC (and the various others that own what I have incorporated by association)
> 
> The SCA is real (go ahead and ask me about it); my version of it is based on my assistance in the development of the Sisters Grinn Filklore Fairy Tales owned by Raven Ai Briarkith. http://sistersgrinn.wordpress.com/
> 
> This is purely a fanfiction; the only purpose is my amusement. It will not hurt my feelings if you tell me whats not canon, or not properly British. All criticisms are taken with a grain of salt but I would LOVE to know what I did get wrong. This doubles as an exercise of my talents and I can only improve through being made to recognize my weaknesses. Thanks in advance for any beta reading and assistance.

The next morning, much to John’s surprise, and yet somehow completely anticipated by Sherlock, Mary met them on the front porch step. She was dressed in a green and brown tunic that fell to her knees, cream linen pants tucked into knee high dark leather boots, and a black archers hood, along with her now-familiar belt, sword, and pouch.

“You look like Robin Hood.” John teased her, pulling the zipper up on his windbreaker while Sherlock marched passed him to hail a taxi.

“I hope not.” Mary replied nervously. “She’s wanted in seven shires of the Knowne World.” Stunned by her apparently sincere response, John said nothing, silently wondering whether she was trying to be funny.

“Come along, pond.” Sherlock called, holding the door open expectantly.

“What did you say?” John asked, stepping off the curb and offering his hand to help Mary in the car. Sherlock tilted his head, glancing into the sky while he narrowed his eyes, always contemplating.

“When?” He wondered out loud.

“Oh, never mind.” John growled, taking the seat in the middle.

The tinted windows of the little black car frustrated Mary--she had requested the window seat--because they gave a very poor view of the passing scenery. Still, she sat on the far left with her legs bent towards the door, her elbow on the window, chin on her fist, and nose nearly pressed against the dark glass. Her sword, easily unclipped from the belt holster, was tucked between her knees to avoid uncomfortable prodding.

John, fitting rather tightly in the middle with his hands in his lap, was surprised by how long it took them to get out of the city, and it still cost them another hour before the hackney pulled into the driveway of a rather large square house, decorated with white stucco and maroon shutters.

Sherlock, as was frequently the case, stared through the windshield with a determined look on his face, right up until the car stopped. Then, lunging from the back seat like a wolf narrowly escaping a trap, he paced up the drive to the front steps, only to be met at the door by a short, portly fellow--late fifties, small round eyes, greying hair with a sort of bull-dog shaped face. His suit was professionally tailored, made of grey linen, with a silk tie and expensive looking shoes, which had recently been shined.

John helped Mary out of the car and paid the hackney, asking him to wait for them for the return trip while Mary buckled her sword back onto her belt. Then they both joined Sherlock on the porch to meet Mr. Distressed.

“Jacob Guthrie.” Mr. Distressed introduced himself, holding out a hand to shake with each of them. Sherlock, dismissively tucked his hand into his pocket. “Please, won’t you come in?”

Ushering them inside, Mr. Guthrie waddled down to the left of the front hallway through a set of wooden double doors, which led to an airy parlor. On the far side, the wall was made entirely out of paned glass, letting light shine through onto the barrage of plants laid out on the sill.

“Odessa loves herbs.” Mr. Guthrie mumbled, by way of explanation. “Please, take a seat. I’ll just, put on a kettle, I suppose, and we can speak freely. The children have been taken to school and Odessa, well, she’s awaiting trial at the county office.”

“Is the county office the same as jail?” Mary whispered when Mr. Guthrie was out of earshot. John nodded slowly, shrugging one shoulder.

“He might be uncomfortable saying jail.” He explained, just as quietly. While Mary and John had taken a seat on the comfortable sofa, facing the entrance, Sherlock remained standing and paced around the room, leaning and bending and stretching to examine the details of everything.

“Odessa loves herbs.” He murmured, mocking the client’s tone. “What does that tell us?”

“That she would be more inclined to use poison than bullets.” Mary responded, turning to glance over her shoulder at him. “Women generally are anyway.”

“She’s beating you, John.” Sherlock teased maliciously, bouncing a wide, spade-shaped frond with his gloved fingertips. “Her plants have been well taken care of in her absence, there’s isn’t a speck of dust on any of these, and all of the potted soil is damp.”

Rolling his eyes, John pulled his ankle up over his knee, trying not to rub the sore knot at the joint.

“Here we are.” Mr. Guthrie announced, setting a large silver tray on the table in front of the sofa. Taking a seat in the rocking chair in the corner by the doorway, he poured tea for each of them. The tea set was decidedly bereft of a creamer, a sugar bowl, or even a plate of lemons, so the three of them dared to go without, sipping the weak, room temperature tea, with stoically straight faces.

Well, sort of.

“My goodness, you call this tea?” Sherlock asked incredulously, setting his cup down and wiping his mouth with his coat sleeve. “If you want my advice, hire a new nanny quickly before your children perish of dysentery.”

Mr. Guthrie’s face blanched, and then filled with blood as he became embarrassed by his apparent failure as a host. As he rose to fix it, apologizing, Mary placed her hand gently on his forearm, forcing him to retake his seat.

“Do ignore his outbursts, my lord.” She murmured in a soothing voice. “It’s more important that we get to the discussion. Why don’t you recount any pertinent happenstance leading to the discovery of your wife’s death?”

“Oh, well. I suppose.” Somewhat stunned, Mr. Guthrie took a long moment to gather himself. Settling back in his chair, he set his cup and saucer on the edge of the table, laying his hand on his stomach, and began to speak.

“Lydia held a spectacular dinner party the Saturday before she was found.”

“She was found on a Monday.” Sherlock confirmed, glancing at Mr. Guthrie, who nodded, before returning his attention to the windowsill garden.

“We must have had thirty or forty people in the house, music playing, some drinks. Most everyone had gone home by about two or three in the morning.” He coughed into his other hand, reaching for a tissue from the table beside him. “Of course, the children had been in bed since nine, and Odessa was invited to join the festivities. You know, just to enjoy some adult interaction. She’s always playing with the children, reading to them, taking them to the park. I wanted to make sure she could enjoy an evening in sophisticated company.”

“How thoughtful.” Mary murmured, propping her chin on her fist with her elbow on her knee.

“I always did my best to make her feel like part of the family.” He explained. “Lydia rather disliked the idea, however, and she made a spectacle of herself just past midnight, which unfortunately is what caused most of the guests to leave then. The rest stayed to be sure she was ok, and to finish what was left of the good scotch.” Mr. Guthrie chuckled, and received an politely amused smile from Mary.

“On Sunday, we went to church, the same as every week. Odessa brought the children late, as requested, and took them out of their Sunday classes just in time for communion, then we drove home without incident. When Lydia left the house on Monday, I had already gone to the bank, and when she didn’t return that evening I reported her missing, but they told me there was nothing to be done until she had been missing for an entire day, so I called up most of our friends to ask if they had seen her, and they all said no.” Sighing heavily, Mr. Guthrie covered his mouth with the tissue, coughing again.

“Unfortunately, with my work schedule, I couldn’t afford to be up all night wondering about her, and by the time I woke up for work the next morning, they had already found her body.”

“What of the note in her hand?” Mary asked when neither of the other two made a comment.

“The note was a bit confusing.” Mr. Guthrie told her, gazing at the tissue in his hand with his brows lowered. “Odessa writes notes sometimes, little sticky notes that she puts on the fridge, or next to the phone, just things to remind me where I’m meant to be each day. But there’d be no reason for her to write a note to Lydia, let alone to meet her outside of the house. They always leave together, Odessa lives on the third floor, and there’s an intercom system in the house, not to mention both of their cellular phones. Although, Lydia wasn’t really comfortable with texting the way Odessa is.”

“Does Thor Bridge have any special meaning to it?” Mary asked, quieter this time. “Is it conveniently located, or some sort of landmark they’ve used?” Mr. Guthrie shook his head.

“No, to be honest, Thor Bridge is so small I hadn’t heard of it until they told me where she’d been found.” Mr. Guthrie sighed again, his chest making a soft whistling sound. “I can’t even think of the last time Lydia went that far into town. She generally enjoys a different venue for her shopping or weekend outings.”

“Has anything, other than the pistol, gone missing from the house?”

John turned over his shoulder to glance at Sherlock upon Mary’s third consecutive inquiry, while the consulting detective remained silent, his gaze drifting between her and Mr. Guthrie.

“I’ve misplaced more than a few things since Odessa was arrested. She generally runs the house and I find myself inept at such simple things. Most distressing, probably, was my handheld reaching tool. Not sure what its called, but it was rather convenient with the taller cabinets. I’ve been reduced to seeking out a step stool each time I want salt or sugar.” His words became breathy, and he began to gasp and wheeze between sentences.

“Are you feeling alright?” John stood, moving as if to check Mr. Guthrie’s temperature before the larger man held out his arm to stop him, his sausage link fingers splayed.

“Just fine, good sir. I’ve a touch of asthma.”

“Where’s your inhaler?” John asked him. “I can get it for you.”

“It’s in a drawer in the kitchen, I’m afraid I don’t know which one. Odessa usually fetches it for me.” He leaned further back in the chair, causing his vest to ride up over his buttoned shirt. “Thank you.”

“May I use your bathroom, Mr. Guthrie?” Mary asked politely. Nodding stiffly, he pointed her upstairs, still gasping. John made quick work of the long hallway while Mary ascended out of sight.

“Why are you so certain that Odessa isn’t responsible?” Sherlock asked, breaking his silent streak.

Mr. Guthrie continued to breathe heavily until John returned with the inhaler. While Mr. Guthrie shook it and inhaled deeply, John took his wrist to check his pulse before sitting back down at Mr. Guthrie’s insistence that he was fine.

“Odessa is harmless.” Mr. Guthrie told him, holding the inhaler in his open palm. “She’s a sweet and loving woman, a caretaker, a housekeeper, a nursemaid and nanny, but not a murderer.”

At Sherlock’s request, Mr. Guthrie gave the three of them free range to inspect and observe the house, including Odessa’s personal rooms on the third floor. Given his asthmatic attack, he opted to remain in the parlor until they were finished. Having already been ravaged by the formal investigation, most of the obviously pertinent evidence was either missing or altered by now, but there was a great deal from which the incredibly observant Mr. Holmes could gain information.

Once he was satisfied, Sherlock quickly exited the house, leaving the other two to bid Mr. Guthrie goodbye. Not long after that, the three of them piled back into the taxicab, and made the silent trip home, while the two of them in window seats stared outside and John contemplated his thumbs. Fortunately, the ride home felt much shorter and before long they were pulling onto Baker Street.

This time, Mary got out of the car first, opening her door in front of moving traffic as soon as the taxicab came to a stop, and dashing up the stairs to unlock the front door while John paid the hackney again, making sure to thank him for waiting. By the time John and Sherlock reached the porch, Mary had disappeared up both flights of stairs.

“Oh no! She’s gone forever.” Sherlock whined sardonically, clapping John, whose face had fallen at the abandonment, between the shoulder blades and rubbing companionably. “Come, let us wash our sorrow away with hard liquor and tobacco.”

“I’m not interested.” John muttered, knowing that Sherlock was less than serious. “I think I’ll be turning in early, work on the website, unless you’ve more to discuss. Anything new revealed in today’s visit?”

“Hardly.” Sherlock replied. “I had everything I needed before we went, all today managed to do was waste the afternoon on that--”

“Be polite.” John warned him, stomping up the stairs to their flat.

“It isn’t impolite if he isn’t here.” Sherlock argued.  

“You could use the practice.”


	6. Ash and Dust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Mary find a common vice and mutually manipulate into indulgence. Nothing really naughty yet, sorry. I'm a slow seducer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a purely self indulgent piece of art, and will eventually (hopefully) include all of my fandom fantasies :) Hope you don't hate that.
> 
> Sherlock (and all others that I may incorporate by association) belong to BBC (and the various others that own what I have incorporated by association)
> 
> The SCA is real (go ahead and ask me about it); my version of it is based on my assistance in the development of the Sisters Grinn Filklore Fairy Tales owned by Raven Ai Briarkith. http://sistersgrinn.wordpress.com/
> 
> This is purely a fanfiction; the only purpose is my amusement. It will not hurt my feelings if you tell me whats not canon, or not properly British. All criticisms are taken with a grain of salt but I would LOVE to know what I did get wrong. This doubles as an exercise of my talents and I can only improve through being made to recognize my weaknesses. Thanks in advance for any beta reading and assistance.

A few hours later, Sherlock was laying on his side, on the black leather sofa against the wall, curled into the fetal position with nothing but a fleece throw blanket wrapped around him. The half bottle of eighteen year old scotch on the table bespoke of how he had decided to fill his evening when John returned from upstairs, having showered after collecting his laundry for the week. Beside the bottle was a dirtied glass, and the pilfered ashtray now littered with half a pack’s worth of cigarette butts.

“You’re despicable.” John growled, wondering where he had gotten the pack. “What are you doing all this for, this late?”

“I’m bored.” Sherlock whined, refusing even to face him.

“You’ve got a case.” John told him, as he started to pick up the clutter that had spread from the desk to the rest of their living area. “Why don’t you actually solve that instead of wallowing in your own filth and unsustainable self pity.” Those obsidian curls of his bounced as Sherlock spun to face him; realizing too late that his shoulders were trapped by the blanket, he managed to pop his neck and lower back loudly.

“I have already solved it.” Sherlock declared, wincing. “It’s obvious Mr. Distressed did it.”

“Have you proved it to the police? Have you even called Lestrade? Has the governess been released and all charges dropped? Have you got enough evidence to accomplish that?”

John couldn’t help as his tone became more and more scathing. The lout had been more particularly infuriating over the last few days, having put so much energy into his torment of John, and their new neighbor. For a moment, Sherlock’s bright eyes locked on his and then, becoming frustrated, he turned sharply towards the sofa once more.

“No.” Sherlock whispered disdainfully.

“Then you haven’t solved anything.” John remarked.

“I need something stronger.”

“Than scotch and cigarettes?” John asked. “Unlikely. You should get something to eat, since you haven’t since at least yesterday morning. Or at the very least, a little sleep.”

“Completely unnecessary.”

“You’re being intentionally impetuous.” John growled. “Just go to bed.”

“Perhaps I’ll partake of some of Mrs. Hudson’s herbal soothers.” Sherlock cooed, smiling as he rolled over and sat upright before lifting himself from the sofa with the blanket still wrapped around his otherwise naked body.

“You better not empty her tea box for such a selfishly abhorrent purpose.” John warned him, lifting his brows.

“Oh, no.” Sherlock murmured, grinning as he shook his head slowly, in a dramatic fashion. “Certainly not her tea box.”

“Whatever.” John muttered angrily. “I’m heading out, dropping the laundry. Shall I get you something to eat, perhaps a remedy for the hangover you’ll be battling in the morning?”

“I don’t get hangovers.” The stubborn arse replied snarkily.

“Enjoy your evening, then.” With that, John picked up his sack of dirty clothes and marched down the stairs.

Mary was just coming in, struggling with the little black umbrella that Mrs. Hudson had let her borrow, when John reached the bottom of the stairs. Having changed out of her fair weather clothes from the morning’s adventure, John was delighted to find her in a rather attractive gown with a square neckline, though her long wool cloak hid most of her from sight.

“Hello, Miss Mary. Haven’t seen you in a while.” He teased her casually, then offered to close the tricky mechanism for her, which she happily accepted. “What took you out in this weather?”

“I went looking for pipe weed.” She told him honestly. “Turns out, you idiots made it illegal sometime last millennia, so I am at a loss.”

“Pipe weed? I haven’t heard that since the last Lord of the Rings movie was released.”  He chuckled. “Tobacco is available in every corner convenience store, pre-rolled and filtered.”

“I don’t want to get sick.” She countered incredulously. “Tobacco isn’t healthy at all. I just need to find some herbs to help me sleep.”

“You mean weed as in cannabis?” John asked, softening his voice on the last word, since he was uncomfortable using it. Ever since he had seen four of his comrades ejected from basic training just for smelling like it, the national lack of tolerance made him cautious.

“Maybe.” Mary muttered dejectedly. “After I made a fool of myself at the glass shop, I haven’t bothered to ask anyone about the dialect. I was, however, told to find something on the tweet-o-sphere regarding frilly green.”

“There is a whole set of underground words, people, and places dedicated to the growth and distribution of cannabis.” John explained. “But I wouldn’t know where to start in finding them. Sorry, but I can’t help you.”

“I’ll be alright.” She murmured, carefully wrapping the elastic band around the umbrella to keep it closed.

“There have to be better ways to help you fall asleep.” John continued. “Being that cannabis is illegal here, and most places, you may want to seek out an alternative.”

Closing one eye, as if to wink, Mary looked up at him through her coppery bangs, still damp from the rain and clinging to her forehead. Her eyes, he noticed, were a strange shade of dark, jade green, tinted with flecks of golden brown around the iris; John found himself staring.

“I’d rather be arrested for carrying something the law tells me is wrong, than suffer from the side-effects of what you lot call medicine.” Grinning coyly, she slid past him up the stairs, and vanished around the corner. Shaking his head, John continued out the front door, pulling his collar up against the rain as he quickly walked down the stretch of street towards his laundromat.

As soon as the front door clicked shut, Mary heard the door on the landing behind her open, and turned just in time to see Mr. Holmes waltzing down the stairs in nothing more than a small blanket.  The stoic look on his face couldn’t hide the smallest curl at the corner of his mouth, indicative of amusement generally borne out of mischief.

“Good evening, Mr. Holmes.” Mary called quietly, leaning on the stair railing as he turned, startled, to face her. “If you’re intending to go out, I’d suggest an overcoat. It’s quite chilly outside, not to mention the rain.”

“No.” He answered promptly, a bit exaggerated in volume, before continuing his tromp down the stairs. Just to irritate him, Mary decided to return the borrowed umbrella to Mrs. Hudson, and quickly reached the first floor in time to see Mr. Holmes letting himself in to Mrs. Hudson’s apartment.

“What are you doing?” Mary asked softly, knowing he hadn’t heard her silent boots on the stairs.

Those translucent eyes glanced over his pale shoulder, where the blanket was slipping down without his tight grasp, and he watched her until he was inside and could close the door behind him. Setting the umbrella beside the door in the front hall, Mary stared at Mrs. Hudson’s peephole with her arms crossed for a few minutes before losing interest.

It was on her second trip up the stairs, now with John and Mr. Holmes’ door left open, that Mary recognized the smell of something burning coming from their living room. From the top stair, simply glancing into the open doorway, she noticed smoke rising from a glass bowl on the table, and the little flicker of flames starting to consume the paperwork beneath it.

That smell; flashes of memory danced in front of her eyes like ten foot flames, causing her heart rate to increase past the point of panic. The screams of children and animals echoed in her ears as she fought to control her terror-stricken reaction. Shaking herself from the traumatic reverie, Mary turned to shout “Sherlock” down the stairs, before running inside to try and put the flames out by herself.

At first unsure of how to accomplish anything, she used her gloved hands to smack the slowly growing flames, scattering black paper ash and glowing cinders around the table. Then, picking up the dripping trim of her gown, she squeezed until water splashed over the smouldering papers, wetting most of the table at the same time. Just then, Mr. Holmes appeared in the doorway with a small wooden box in his hand, and an aghast look on his face.  

“What the hell do you think you are doing?” Though his voice was quiet, the tone was terrifying, and Mary jumped back when he stormed into the room.

“Your table nearly caught fire.” She muttered, her eyebrows falling together in anger while embarrassment painted her cheeks.

“You’ve soaked it all now, how is that better?” Mr. Holmes demanded, nearly dropping his blanket in his attempts to clean the sooty water from whatever had been strewn across the table. “Do you often break into other people’s apartments to rescue them from candles?”

“It wasn’t a candle.” Mary argued, walking the long way around the table to escape him, her hands fisted at her sides.

“No, but a flame hardly the size of one, and you’ve ruined a weeks worth of notes. You had better hope I can recreate them.” His voice was so irritatingly calm, Mary felt chastised. “You really ought to be more considerate, not to mention careful.”

“Obviously they aren’t that important, if you were willing to lay a burning ember on them.” She snapped, collectively angry about every rude thing he had uttered since their introductions. “But you couldn’t take one extra moment to put it out before you went sneaking into Mrs. Hudson’s apartment, practically naked.”

Normally she avoided outbursts like this, but the abrasive manner of his whole being had started to chafe at her patience. The wooden box, which he had obviously taken from Mrs. Hudson, was sitting on the arm of the black sofa. Picking it up, she continued on her tirade, waving the box in his face for emphasis.

“And for what, to steal a box of tea or chocolate from your own landlady? Of all the stupidly ignorant, selfish, addle brained nonsense--” Mary paused, inhaling enough to catch the scent of the box in her hand.

At her sudden silence, Mr. Holmes turned those iridescent eyes on her, half lidded with irritation and yet sparkling with curiosity as they shifted from uninterested grey to a crisp sky blue. Despite his apparent distaste for her, he wondered what had caused her such random pause, and waited, as he recently found himself doing more frequently.

“Is that pipe weed?” Mary asked quietly, holding the box closer to her face and inhaling deeply. “Is this hers, or did you just hide it in her room?” Mr. Holmes’ eyes narrowed, and he tilted his head, contemplating her.

“I won’t be distracted from the mess you’ve made of my living room.” He mumbled after a moment of silence.

“Good goddess!” Mary cried out in frustration. “I’ll clean the whole damn flat if you just tell me this is pipe weed, that it’s yours, and that you’ll share.” His only reaction was to tilt his chin, raising his eyebrows until they disappeared into the mop of tangled onyx curls. “Or at least tell me where I might get my own.”

“Having some trouble infiltrating the underground market of good old London town?” Mr. Holmes asked snidely. “It can’t be that much more difficult than wherever you came from.”

“Where I come from, it isn’t illegal.” Mary responded curtly. “We use hemp more than fresh water, and it grows in every garden, riverbank, and field.” Mr. Holmes chuckled quietly, his entire face wrinkling in a cheek splitting grin.

“Unfortunately for you.” He announced in a matter-of-fact tone, reaching down to pick up a small packet of rolling papers. “You’ve ruined my device.”

“I’ve gotta virgin pipe in my pocket.” Mary countered before he could finish the sentence. “Glass, in fact, my first one.” Almost unconsciously, Mr. Holmes steepled his fingers in front of his mouth, and his eyes drifted down her entire form once more; as if seeking answers he had missed last time.

“I am rather bored this evening.” He muttered finally. “If you can manage to amuse me, I’ll let you stay.”

“Excellent.” Mary sighed.

“You can start your cleaning in the kitchen.” Lifting his arm, he first indicated their disgusting, cluttered kitchen, and then held out his hand, curling his fingers to demand her pipe. Rolling her eyes, Mary reached into the pouch at her hip, pulling out the glass pipe, still bound in its bubbled plastic wrap, and set it carefully in his hand.

“Try not to break it.” She growled, turning as she pulled her cloak off and set it on the brick red chair with its back to the kitchen.

“Don’t leave that there.” Mr. Holmes called after her. Pausing, Mary looked back at him, quirking an eyebrow, before moving the cloak to the hooks, hidden just inside the kitchen entrance.

“Precious piece, is it?” She asked, reminded of the way her parents were about her great-grandfather’s handmade furniture.

“That’s John’s chair.” Mr. Holmes murmured softly in reply, finally turning away from her as he dropped heavily onto the black leather sofa. It probably wasn’t his intention for her to hear.

Mary watched him for a moment longer as he pulled little clear bags out of the box, as well as a wooden grinder. His face, obviously thinking she couldn’t see him from the sink, looked devastatingly naked, lonely, and so full of pain.

 


	7. A Less Cursory Glance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: Mild drug use (Cannabis), borderline molestation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a purely self indulgent piece of art, and will eventually (hopefully) include all of my fandom fantasies :) Hope you don't hate that.
> 
> Sherlock (and all others that I may incorporate by association) belong to BBC (and the various others that own what I have incorporated by association)
> 
> The SCA is real (go ahead and ask me about it); my version of it is based on my assistance in the development of the Sisters Grinn Filklore Fairy Tales owned by Raven Ai Briarkith. http://sistersgrinn.wordpress.com/
> 
> This is purely a fanfiction; the only purpose is my amusement. It will not hurt my feelings if you tell me whats not canon, or not properly British. All criticisms are taken with a grain of salt but I would LOVE to know what I did get wrong. This doubles as an exercise of my talents and I can only improve through being made to recognize my weaknesses. Thanks in advance for any beta reading and assistance.

It was well past dark, and stars had begun to peek through the scattered cloud cover when John finally arrived back at 221 Baker Street, still hauling his canvas sack of now-freshly-washed laundry. Mrs. Hudson was emerging from her kitchen as he pulled the front door open, and she greeted him with a bright smile.

“Hello, John.”

“Mrs. Hudson.” Leaning forward, he kissed her cheek, as he frequently did.

“I was just about to bring a cuppa up for Mary and Sherlock.” She told him excitedly. “I’ll grab one more for you as well.”

“Thanks.” John muttered, a little confused by her statement. “Did you say Mary and Sherlock?”

“Oh, yes. They’ve been chatting in your flat since I got home.” Turning, she let her door swing shut behind her, and John made his cautious march up the stairs.

When he reached the landing, the door was closed, but he could clearly hear both Mary and Sherlock giggling loudly behind the thick wood. The rarity of Sherlock’s laughter made the deep, throaty, vibrating timbre all the more curious, and reminded John of the day they were kidnapped to Buckingham Palace. Coupled with Mary’s light hearted, ringing, musical laughter, the whole cacophony made John’s head spin. Almost nervous, he pushed the door open with his boot, still carrying the heavy sack.

The first thing to hit him was the ephemeral cloud of blue grey smoke that burst forth as he opened the door. Both sets of curls bounced as the two turned to face him, the coiled shiny copper and the ringlets of blue-tinted obsidian. Sherlock was still wrapped in his fleece throw blanket and Mary sat on the floor on the other side of the short table, made lower by the half step separating living room from entrance. Propped up on pillows which she must have brought from her own flat, she was leaning back on her splayed hands, with her legs stretched in front of her.

Instead of the dripping gown she had returned home in a few hours ago, she was now dressed in what appeared to be a pair of shamrock printed pyjama pants and an overly large, plain white, v-neck t-shirt, which left little to the imagination. Averting his gaze, though she seemed unfettered, he tossed his sack of clean laundry into the kitchen and stalked towards them, coming to stand at the end of the table with his hands on his hips.

“What are the two of you up to?” John murmured curiously. Mary instantly glanced at Sherlock, obviously expecting him to provide the most proper and acceptable response. John lifted one brow, sliding his tongue against his lip, which he frequently did when agitated, while he waited for the answer.

“An experiment, John!” Sherlock announced giddily. “Regarding the binding social structure of gender inequality, as well as some peripheral study on the balances involved in supply and demand. I’ve managed to manipulate our little lady neighbor into cleaning the entire flat in exchange for a few grams of illegal herbal soothers.”

“And the contact information for a reliable provider.” Mary clarified, lifting her arm to point an accusatory finger at Sherlock. Shocked, John actually took a moment to glance around the room, only to find that almost nothing had been altered or moved, let alone cleaned.

“It doesn’t look even remotely different.” He grumbled, more dissention than insult. Sherlock lifted one shoulder, making a noncommittal noise in this throat.

“I couldn’t allow her to disturb anything important.”

“Now who’s the shrugger?” Mary murmured, bending her knees and crossing them to sit upright. Then, leaning her head on her fists with her elbows propped up on her knees, she tilted her head towards John and added. “Anything important was practically everything, but I managed to wash all the dishes that weren’t still being used, as well as take an electric broom across the carpet and clear most of the collected dust and grime from the windows, counters, and cabinets.”

“Yes, and with the carpets finally swept, I was able to lay out the crime scene photos that Lestrade sent over.” Sherlock added, indicating towards the spread out piles of photographs sprawled across the rest of the living room floor.

“Well, thank you.” John told Mary, still a bit uncomfortable with the whole situation, especially given the about-face in Sherlock’s attitude, though it was easy to presume that Sherlock’s ‘illegal herbal soothers’ was the cannabis Mary had been seeking earlier, and had probably lightened the detective's mood a bit.

“Mrs. Hudson is going to smell that, Sherlock.” John warned, crossing the room to open one of the—visibly cleaner—windows and hoping it would clear the smokiness of the room.

“Where do you think I acquired it?” Sherlock drawled, rolling his head around to smirk at John, and then squinting when light from the street lamp flashed across his face. The old soldier sighed heavily, leaning his head back to contemplate where he had gone wrong in life.

“That’s her herbal soothers I suppose?” He demanded impatiently, just as Mrs. Hudson pushed the unlatched door open with her elbow while balancing her tea tray. Before John could move to help her, Mary stood and accepted the heavy tray from their favored landlady, setting it on the table so easily that John found it difficult to believe she was inebriated.

“I know it’s late, but I thought you might like a bit of bedtime tea to help you sleep. This is chamomile” Mrs. Hudson explained, fussing with the napkins and sugar bowl. “Right, and, off to bed with me.” Smiling, she turned and pulled the door closed behind her without a further thought. John let out the breath he had been holding.

“Here, John.” Sherlock held out his hand, indicating the red and gold glass pipe in his palm.

“I’m not partaking.” John turned away, taking a brisk walk around the kitchen to ease some of the tension in his body. “Wasn’t it stressful enough during your first drug search?” He asked, raising his voice to be heard across the flat.

“Drug search?” Mary asked quietly.

“Yes,” John answered instantly. “When they tear your whole house apart searching for anything illegal.”

“You let them come in your house for that?” Her voice was incredulous.

John paused mid stride, his nervous pacing interrupted by her sincere confusion; every conversation offered another reminder that her story about this other world might actually be true, and every time that thought crossed his mind it was accompanied by doubts toward his own sanity.

“There’s very little to be done to stop them when they come with a legal warrant.” He explained calmly, trying not to sound condescending. “As Sherlock knows well enough.” Raising his voice a bit to add emphasis, John directed a firm look at his undisciplined flatmate, expectant of an explanation.

“You know, this herbal soother is very capable of handling stress, particularly with things that are useless to be stressed about.” Sherlock continued, unfettered by the harsh gaze.

“No.” John answered.

“Why not?” Mary asked innocently, either earnestly curious or put on it by Sherlock’s meddling manipulation. “Have you ever tried it before, or has your society got you terrified of something so harmlessly natural?”

Having paused in the open doorway between the kitchen and the living area, John had framed himself in the center of both their lines of sight, backlit by the dull light pouring through the kitchen window, arms akimbo, fists on his hips, head hanging forward in impatient defeat.

“I’ve tried it before.” He admitted quietly, knowing he wouldn’t escape the barrage otherwise. “It’s quite uncomfortable for us non-smokers, and I’m not interested in repeating that sort of self-abuse.”

“Given all the other sorts of self-abuse you intentionally endure.” Sherlock began, growing quiet at John’s new facial expression, which promised violence.

“Here,” Mary murmured, standing and taking her pipe from Sherlock’s still-outstretched hand. “This will make it easier.” A fold of matches already in her hand, she lit one easily, dipping it into the packed mouth of her pipe, and inhaling deeply.

“Breathe in slowly.” She whispered, trying not to exhale as she leaned forward, cupping the back of his head gently, and pulled him towards her until their mouths nearly touched. Unable to do anything to stop her, John began to inhale as she blew the lungful of blue-grey cannabis smoke into his open mouth. She closed her eyes, a few inches from his, leaning forward on the balls of her feet to reach him; it was satisfying knowing he was at least taller than her.

When she was finished, she released him, and retook her seat on the recently vacuumed carpet, completely unaffected by their moments of extreme physical proximity; which, on the other hand, had left John incapable of moving for a long minute. As his lungs began to demand oxygen, he slowly exhaled to avoid coughing, and was surprised by the large amount of smoke that came out despite his lack of discomfort.

“Was that better?” Mary asked, leaning back on her splayed hands once more. Her question, her tone, and her face were completely guileless, but she smiled coyly, obviously aware of the effect that she had on him.

“Uh, yea. Yes.” He muttered, dragging a hand down his face before taking a seat in his favorite chair. “That was quite pleasant actually.” Fighting the nervous energy that hummed through him, John picked up his laptop, having decided to start his blog post on The Problem of Thor Bridge.

"Let me try." Sherlock murmured slyly.

Casting him a dirty look, John turned and glared purposefully at his screen, unwilling to witness what would look like a kiss but was actually a plot device in Sherlock's inner monologue, intended to punish both Mary for her presence and John for his attention to an outsider. It was the same inner monologue that allowed the genius consulting detective to mentally catalog two hundred and forty different types of tobacco ash but kept him from remembering the names of John's lady callers during basic social interaction.

Perhaps, if John was lucky, sword toting Miss Mary would take offense and strike the idiot. So focused on the glowing screen, John failed entirely to notice that the other two had gone suspiciously quiet.

Long, knobby fingers slid into John's short cut hair, dragging his head back and making him gasp just in time for Sherlock's mouth to press against his, sealed tight enough for the lanky bastard to force John's chest to expand while he exhaled a deep breath into the startled soldier's lungs.

In the shocked moments afterward, Mary rolled backwards on the carpet, laughing somewhat maniacally. Then Sherlock released him, standing with his blanket held tight around him for a moment, contemplating the result.

John choked, partially from shock, but also from the thick cloud of cannabis smoke that shot from his mouth as he tried to breathe. Dropping his laptop on the ground, he leaned forward in his chair, still gasping and coughing while his face filled with blood.

"What's wrong with you? " John demanded, attempting to shout though it came out barely above a whisper.

“There’s a part of the puzzle I can’t quite see.” Sherlock announced in his usual philosophical tone. “In the crime scene photos, Mrs. Distressed--”

“Guthrie.” Mary put in, receiving a menacing glare before the consulting detective continued.

“She was lying perpendicular to the bridge, directly at its center, with the blood pooled around her head, though it had begun to drain off the edge.” He steepled his fingers in front of him, barely maintaining the blanket, while John continued to fight the coughing fit. “Given that the GSR indicates she must have been three feet away from the gun, that would suggest her assailant was sitting on the ledge, or rather, on the other side of the ledge, over the water.”

“Floating, then?” Mary asked, giggling quietly. “Really, Mr. Holmes, you do go on.” Her attempts at mimicking a British accent caused both men to glance up, startled and bemused. John swallowed harshly, finally able to breathe.

“No,” Sherlock growled in reply. “There’s a variable I can’t see.”

“Do you need to go back to Thor Bridge?” John asked, his voice rasping. Sherlock turned slowly, surveying the room, and the photos on the floor; then he glanced at Mary in her reclination.

“I think I just need a visual aid.” He muttered in a curious tone. “Miss Mary, would you mind miming a corpse for me?” Quirking a brow, she contemplated him with a small smirk. “It’s simple really. You assume the position and then remain still.”

“I suppose I could try.” She answered, giving her best unsure-but-game smile. “You’ll need to provide directions.”

“Lie in the middle of the floor.” Sherlock told her. “I will return in a moment.” Disappearing through the kitchen, he tossed his sheet on the ground just outside his bedroom, vanishing behind the door before anything could be glimpsed.

“Hope you don’t have a real problem with personal space.” John whispered, unsure of his voice.

“He’s not going to molest me.” Mary murmured in reply, smirking again. “I’ve pretended to be asleep before. When I was young my father used to carry me to bed if I fell asleep on the sofa. It can’t be much different than that.”

“Alright!” Sherlock announced, returning fully dressed in a burgundy button shirt and black slacks.

“Why have you gotten dressed just now? It’s past midnight.” John asked him incredulously, but Sherlock ignored the inquiry. “You’ve even put on a belt and shoes.” He added in a frustrated tone, before returning his gaze to the glowing screen of his computer. The blinking insertion point cursor stared at him mockingly, while the two other people in the room pulled at his attention.

“Mrs. Distressed--”

“Guthrie.” Mary interrupted him again, receiving a harsh, threatening stare as he continued.

“--was found laying perfectly perpendicular, with her arms out to either side. Move your arm there.” Sherlock pointed, maintaining a suitable distance, rather than touching her himself. “Her purse was still caught on her arm, but not clutched.” Picking up photos, he twisted and turned them to line everything up perfectly.

The two of them spent quite a few more minutes trying to get situated, while combatting Mary’s impulse to giggle, mimic, and correct him. John was surprised Sherlock was putting up with it all, really; he had seen the sulking genius lose his patience with much more cooperative persons.

“Alright, now don’t move.” Sherlock told her finally, pointing an accusatory finger when her lip curled a bit. “I mean it. Pretend you lack a pulse.”

Standing, Sherlock took and lit the pipe from the low table, inhaling deeply while he contemplated the ceiling. Then, bending down, he exhaled the blue grey smoke into her face, and was pleased when she gave no response. Setting the pipe down, he dragged the table to the edge of the step, so that it was precisely the same distance from the bottoms of Mary’s bare feet, as the railing of the bridge had been from Mrs. Guthrie’s boots; a little less than three feet.

“Now.” Sherlock murmured, in a curiously self satisfied voice. “What do we know?”

John listened quietly while Sherlock recited all of the facts he had already been able to deduce, whether from the evidence collected by the original investigation, or from his own meddlings at the bridge and Guthrie residence. While his facts involved anything other than the body, the consulting detective pointed at photos, picking them up, turning them over, tossing them back down. He discussed the pistol found in the nanny’s armoire, and the fact that it had been recently fired. He discussed Mrs. Guthrie’s actions and attitude during the weekend before her death.

"Her purse was almost empty." Sherlock murmured. "Wallet, untouched. Cellular off. TV guide. Makeup bag. Mirror."

When his facts began to involve the body, Sherlock leaned towards Mary’s still form. As if actually on scene, he mimed checking her pulse, her temperature, and announced the alleged time of death. He looked inside her pockets, and pretended to push aside the lapels of her coat; all based on the photos he had been allowed access to by Lestrade. Slipping his hands beneath Mary's shoulders, he felt along either side, searching for something, making a slow and deliberate path towards her hips, up under her thighs, and down to her knees.

“If this bothers you,” He whispered, “Feel free to stop me.” John, his eyes riveted to every inch of the man that touched the girl, could not guess to which of them Sherlock spoke.

Having received no answer, he continued his administrations until he reached her ankles, grasping them for a quick moment before measuring the distance between her feet and the railing once more. More photos to consult, more calculations. His eyes flitted around the room, across her body, back to the photos, considering every detail in search of a completed narrative.

“She couldn’t have been standing more than a foot away from the railing.” Sherlock murmured. Kneeling beside her, he pressed his thumb into her forehead. “You were shot in the left frontal lobe, and the GSR suggests you didn’t pull the trigger.”

Lifting one leg over her, Sherlock suddenly straddled Mary, struggling a bit to keep his balance, though he refused to show it, while pressing closer to her face. Pulling the little sliding magnifying glass from his back pocket, he picked up another photo and held it next to her head, his eyes darting from one to the other.

“But who could have been standing on the other side of the railing?”

“Who could reach from the other side of the railing?” Mary whispered, her mouth barely moving to form the words; John had to strain towards them to hear. Sherlock pursed his lips in irritation, lifting away and settling back on his heels, his butt crushed against her upper thighs, but Mary had become inert once again.

“Well, I’ve had enough of this.” Sherlock murmured after a long moment of silence; standing to stalk across the room into the kitchen, he ducked into his bedroom and shouted, “If you need me, don’t.” before closing the door behind him.

John, having been uncomfortably interested in the contact between the two of them, pulled his laptop closer against him while Sherlock strolled by; he blushed guiltily, hoping his shame wasn’t visible to the insanely observant man. Focusing on the blinking cursor, he willed his body to calm itself.

“Good night Mr. Holmes.” Mary called softly, still lying on her back in a superbly calm daze.

A few distracted minutes later, John turned from his computer screen to find that Mary had fallen asleep on the floor, curled on her side, head held up by her bent arm. After a moment of thought filled hesitation, the army doctor stood and lifted her from the floor, tucking her head against his shoulder. With less effort than he had originally imagined, as she was much more slight than her loose garb made her appear, he kicked the door open and took the stairs carefully.

Despite having acquired actual furniture, her flat was still rather bare. From the front door of the apartment to her bedroom, which lay over John and Sherlock’s living area, it was a simple right turn and ten steps, which brought him through a doorway with beads strung across it rather than a door, much like the ones in Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen.

A glance at the clock over her mantel told him it was well into the morning hours. Just as he reached the edge of her king sized mattress, John realized that his head had grown fuzzy, most likely as a result of the cannabis smoke which had been forced into his lungs. The warmth of her body had started to seep through the multiple layers of fabric separating them. Suddenly the soft texture of her bare skin was as alluring as the supple curves that melded against him.

It hadn’t felt this way the first time he tried smoking. Setting her on the bed, John took a moment to roll her towards the center, to keep her from falling off the edge. His eyes became heavy, and he turned to sink onto the mattress, too exhausted even to keep himself standing.

No, no, no. He thought, launching from the bed and stumbling against the wall. This was pathetic, he could make it to his own bed just fine. Shaking his head to clear the fog, he clumsily made his way back through her front door, closing it behind him, and down the stairs, across his flat, up the spiral stairs in the back, and then through his own bedroom door.

Judging by the lay of the two apartments, John was, now laying in his own bed, approximately fifteen feet away from his previous location in Mary’s bedroom; presuming that her apartment was square, which left her living room between his bedroom wall and hers. Or, perhaps he rested on the far wall of her kitchen, putting him little more than twenty feet from her front door.

“How terribly inconvenient that is.” John mumbled to himself, falling into the coverlet of his own single person bed. “Two staircases and fifty paces to move twenty feet.” He grumbled into his pillow.


	8. Revelation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tells Lestrade (and John) what happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a purely self indulgent piece of art, and will eventually (hopefully) include all of my fandom fantasies :) Hope you don't hate that.
> 
> Sherlock (and all others that I may incorporate by association) belong to BBC (and the various others that own what I have incorporated by association)
> 
> The SCA is real (go ahead and ask me about it); my version of it is based on my assistance in the development of the Sisters Grinn Filklore Fairy Tales owned by Raven Ai Briarkith. http://sistersgrinn.wordpress.com/
> 
> This is purely a fanfiction; the only purpose is my amusement. It will not hurt my feelings if you tell me whats not canon, or not properly British. All criticisms are taken with a grain of salt but I would LOVE to know what I did get wrong. This doubles as an exercise of my talents and I can only improve through being made to recognize my weaknesses. Thanks in advance for any beta reading and assistance.

“Wake up, John.” Sherlock shouted from the bottom of the stairs once more.

Blinking slowly, the old soldier glanced around the room; an odd habit he had picked up in basic training, and maintained through the rest of his adventures. After a moment of stretching and regaining his bearings, John rolled off the little mattress and made his way downstairs. Upon closer inspection of his person, he realized he had fallen asleep fully clothed; the button of his jeans left a red imprint on his stomach and his toes ached from being confined in his tight boots.

“Good, you’re dressed.” Sherlock still seemed to be shouting, his voice excited. “I’ve just called Lestrade, he’s meeting us at Thor Bridge in half an hour.”

“What for?” John asked, pulling off his shirt and grabbing a clean one from his bag of fresh laundry, which still lay on the kitchen floor where he left it. Sherlock paused to glance at him, his face incredulous.

“I’ve solved it, obviously.” The man practically snarled.

“And it’s time for the dramatic reveal, I suppose?” Sherlock’s spine stiffened at the jab, and John gave him an overly pleasant smile. “Shall I call Mary down?”

“If you must.” Tossing on his coat, he hiked up the collar and threw open their front door, stomping down the stairs. “I’ll be out front for two minutes, then I’m leaving without you.”

“You’ll be out there for ten.” John muttered to himself when Sherlock was out of earshot. “Smoking, no doubt.”

Glancing at the clock on the wall, the old soldier was rather irritated to find it was not quite nine in the morning, and he had only been sleeping for about five hours. It was highly unlikely that Mary would be awake, let alone ready to leave in ten minutes, but based on her interest and participation so far, it felt wrong to leave her behind without notice.

John took the stairs quickly, and rapped his knuckles sharply against her door twice, leaning in to listen for any movement. Almost immediately, and without any noisy indication, the door swung open to reveal Mary, awake, freshly bathed, and fully dressed in another tunic and sideless surcoat ensemble, though with a confused look on her face.

“Sorry.” John murmured instantly. “Have I interrupted something?”

“Well, I was about to step out for breakfast.” Mary told him quietly, lifting her peacoat from its hook beside her. “Though the knocking startled me.”

“My apologies.” He whispered, blushing and glancing down the stairs. “Uhm, the reason I’ve come up is well, Sherlock’s got the case solved, I suppose. We’re meeting Lestrade at Thor Bridge in half an hour, and I wondered if you’d like to come along for the finale.” Staring at him, Mary quirked a curious brow, puckering her mouth.

“Who is Lestrade?”

“The, uh, Detective Inspector we work with, on cases.” John cleared his throat uncomfortably. “You don’t have to come if you’re uninterested. I just, uhm, wondered if you were, or if you might like to, I dunno, come, along?”

“Alright.” She answered, so quickly she nearly cut him off. “I need another minute. Can I meet you downstairs?”

“Yea. Sure. See you, in a minute.” Nodding, John turned and started down the stairs, forgetting to stop moving his head until he reached the front door. “Idiot.” He mumbled to himself, grabbing his jacket from the hook in the front hall.

Sherlock was smoking, standing on the curb with a half-burned cigarette pressed against his mouth. His gloved hands dwarfed the thing, showing and hiding it while he glanced up and down the street. John closed the front door behind him loudly, and Sherlock turned to look at him, casually tossing the unfinished cigarette into the street without so much as a guilty glance.

“Mary will be down in a moment.” John told him, pulling on his jacket.

“Mind blowing.” Sherlock growled. “At this point we’ll need a cab.”

“It’s only a twenty minute walk.” John argued. “And what do you care if we’re late?” Sky blue eyes swept towards him, pinning him motionless as Sherlock considered him. Fortunately, that paralyzing gaze was drawn from him as Mary emerged from the front door, tossing her leather satchel over the stolen peacoat.

“Good morning, boys.” She chimed, turning to smile at the two of them.

“Finally.” Sherlock mumbled, and took off down Baker Street without further comment. John and Mary trailed behind a bit, not bothering to catch up; however, before long, the petulant fool slowed his stride to rejoin them, walking beside the street so that Mary was between the two men.

Without thinking, Mary slipped her arm through the crook of Sherlock’s elbow, propped up now that he had his hands in his pockets; a moment later, she did the same thing to John, and the melody of We’re Off to See the Wizard began to play in his head. Despite Sherlock’s usual aversion to being touched, he made no move to pull away; then again, John recalled, Sherlock had initiated that contact.

Just as John had predicted, the three of them arrived at Thor Bridge twenty minutes later, to find Lestrade was waiting for them, dressed in a dark gray jogging suit.

"At your convenience, Sherlock." The older gentleman called in greeting. "Hope this was worth rushing through my breakfast."

"You're looking fabulous today, Lestrade." Sherlock drawled. "Did you enjoy your evening of flower shopping?"

"Just tell me what we're doing here." The inspector mumbled impatiently. “Who’s your friend?”

“Miss Mary Moore.” John introduced her, while Mary held out her hand to shake. “Our new upstairs neighbor. Mary, this is Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade.”

“I didn’t think there was another apartment upstairs.” Lestrade mentioned, grasping Mary’s outstretched hand in a comfortably firm and warm hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“You as well.” Mary answered, cut off early by Sherlock’s impatient noise.

“Yes, yes. It’s all very pleasant.”

“Get on with it, then.” Lestrade told him. “I’m supposed to be at the office already.” Sherlock gave him a  quick smile.

“I’m sure you’re familiar with the case.” He inquired innocently.

“Certainly not.” Lestrade answered. “I’ve only been working on it for the last eight weeks.”

“I’ll start from the beginning, then.” Almost simultaneously, his three audience members sighed, receiving a sidelong glance as he began his narrative. “Mrs. Distressed--.”

“Guthrie.” Mary corrected him out of habit.

“--was a proud, wealthy woman, mother of two children, and an avid fan of forensic murder mystery television dramas. Not surprising, considering she had a Masters degree in forensic science from the University of London. Sad, really, she gave up a promising career to marry her high school sweetheart: the asthma ridden chess club curator who had suddenly become a rather prolific banker.”

“Get to the point.” Lestrade urged him, crossing his arms impatiently.

“Mrs. Distressed shot herself.” Sherlock murmured irritably, and John saw Mary fighting a grin out of the corner of his eye. He and Lestrade exchanged a confused glance, before Sherlock continued.

“She wrote a note, to herself presumably from the nanny, using the imprint method of signature forgery. By laying an example of the nanny’s handwriting over another piece of paper and tracing the lines in heavy ink, she mimicked every stroke perfectly. Given that the nanny wrote many notes daily, there’s no doubt that every word in the note found on scene was available. She fired the nanny’s pistol in the woods, tossing it in the armoire to be found, and took her own pistol--its twin--to the beautiful location of Thor Bridge.”

“The GSR reading indicated the weapon was more than three feet away from her when it was fired.” Lestrade argued.

“Yes, but it also showed she had her arm outstretched.” Lifting his arm, he demonstrated. “Given her location upon dropping to the ground, she was standing quite close to the railing, not quite pressing herself against it.”

“So?”

“So, her assailant certainly wasn’t floating over the river.”

“Then how did she do it?” Lestrade asked, slipping into the trap Sherlock had gently placed in the dialogue.

Grinning, the consulting detective turned so his outstretched arm faced Mary, who lifted the panel of her peacoat to reveal a stainless steel reaching tool; a long pole with a triggered handle at one end and two perpendicular prongs at the other, lined with rubber teeth and functioning on the basis of a tension wire. Placing the handle in Sherlock’s palm, she smirked at him.

“This is a nifty little tool used by many disabled and height impaired individuals to acquire, and maintain a grip on, items that are otherwise outside of their reach. Mr. Distressed is one such individual, who owned two; one six foot, and one three foot, just like this, which went missing the same night of his wife’s death.”

“What are you suggesting?” Lestrade asked.

“I’m not suggesting anything.” Sherlock snapped. “It is obvious that Mrs. Distressed used this three foot reaching tool to grip her own pistol and shoot herself in the head, with the nanny’s note in her hand, in order to implicate her husband’s mistress in her murder; the ultimate revenge for a spiteful wife. She held it over the water to make sure the tool and pistol would fall away from the crime scene, leaving the recently fired twin as the presumed murder weapon.”

Sighing heavily, Lestrade flipped open his mobile phone and walked a few paces away from the others, already beginning the arduous chore of having the river dredged for the mechanism and getting Odessa released.

“Breakfast?” Sherlock asked the others, tossing the tool towards the busy Detective Inspector and strolling across the bridge.


	9. (Un?)warranted Suspicions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary is being provided for by an unknown sponsor, and Sherlock suddenly has a reason to be curious about this anonymous /mysterious/ stranger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> his is a purely self indulgent piece of art, and will eventually (hopefully) include all of my fandom fantasies :) Hope you don't hate that.
> 
> Sherlock (and all others that I may incorporate by association) belong to BBC (and the various others that own what I have incorporated by association)
> 
> The SCA is real (go ahead and ask me about it); my version of it is based on my assistance in the development of the Sisters Grinn Filklore Fairy Tales owned by Raven Ai Briarkith. http://sistersgrinn.wordpress.com/
> 
> This is purely a fanfiction; the only purpose is my amusement. It will not hurt my feelings if you tell me whats not canon, or not properly British. All criticisms are taken with a grain of salt but I would LOVE to know what I did get wrong. This doubles as an exercise of my talents and I can only improve through being made to recognize my weaknesses. Thanks in advance for any beta reading and assistance.

“Give me one good reason to memorize the capitals of countries with which I do not currently share a continent.” Sherlock snapped back, obviously in the middle of a foul mood.

Given that he just had an innocent woman acquitted of murder charges, and spent a great portion of the morning with John escorting their new neighbor around London, the man should have been in a better mood. After a light brunch and a trip through the museum of art, the three of them had retired to the flat to relax. Much to John’s contentment, Mary had opted to join them for an afternoon of television while they enjoyed a moment of silence between riddles.

Well... ‘enjoyed,’ John thought to himself. Sherlock had been snarky and short tempered since breakfast.

“All knowledge is worth having.” Mary mumbled in reply, popping another bright green grape into her mouth. “I read that in a book about angels.”

John smirked a bit, pleasantly occupied by the plump shape of her lips as they puckered around each grape, sucking them inside one at a time. She was completely unconscious of this habit, but watching her made his toes curl. When she had seen them in the window of the grocer, he had been surprised by her excitement; apparently grapes were harder to get in the Known World.

“People fill their minds with useless trivia; soandso is pregnant, blablas getting married, who shall represent us in the Olympics for next year.”

“You ought to know that the earth goes around the sun at least.” John muttered in a derisive tone.

“Primary school, fact memorization.” Sherlock growled, using John’s own words against him. “The order of the revolving planets certainly won’t help me solve a murder, and that is all that interests me. Anything not immediately useful in solving a mystery is discarded like last decade’s tax returns.” He certainly detested repeating himself.

“What do you mean, discarded?” Mary asked with genuine curiosity. Sherlock glanced up from the paperwork in front of him, his eyebrows drawn together.

“Deleted, erased, disposed of." His eyes returned to the paper in his hand.

“From where?” Another grape.

“My mind palace.” Sherlock growled. “I use the Loci Method.”

“Loki, the Nordic god of fire?”

“No.” Sherlock glanced up again, his impatience apparent. “Loci, as in the Latin plural of locus, referring to a place. The Loci Method is a form of memory enhancement which uses visualization to organize and recall information.” He explained quickly. “It allows me to retain a great deal more than the average person, as well as access it upon demand.”

Mary nodded her understanding, and popped another grape into her mouth; John was amused to see the slight widening of Sherlock’s eyes as he witnessed the movement for the first time. Was the consulting detective as aroused by that simple action as the battled hardened army doctor?

Brushing aside the lewd thoughts, John returned to his dialogue in his post about The Problem of Thor Bridge. Now that the media had been informed of the changed findings of fact, he was already late in providing Sherlock’s profound details. At least the trial had been canceled now that it was being ruled a suicide.

“What is it called if you always remember everything?” Mary asked after a moment’s pause, her voice timid.

“Photographic memory.” Sherlock murmured in reply, his ire inexplicably quelled. “Unless it includes  auditory, tactile, gustatory and olfactory sensory recollection, which is Eidetic memory.” Mary made a noncommittal ‘hm’ sound.

For a long time, the three of them sat in relative silence, broken only by the sound of John’s two finger typing and Sherlock laborious research, in addition to the letters based game show on the television, playing in the background. Once in awhile, Mary would announce the answer to a word puzzle, almost unconsciously, it seemed.

“Mary, do you have a mobile phone?” Sherlock asked after a long stint of silence. The groaning in John’s stomach had him setting his computer down and moving to the kitchen, but it didn’t take long for him to decide on takeaway instead.

“Yes.” She murmured in answer. “I don’t know how to use it yet, though.”

“Let me see it.” Raising his arm, he held out his hand expectantly.

“It’s in my bag.” She informed him in a bland tone. “By the door if you want it.” John felt the corner of his mouth curl up, wondering why he had never bothered to refuse him.

“John.” Sherlock murmured expectantly. Having already dialed the number, John ignored him, listening to the ringing.

“Hello, I’d like to place an order for takeaway.” Turning towards Mary he mouthed: what do you want? And held out the menu for her.

“Chicken and cashew.” She told him quietly.

Sighing heavily, Sherlock rose from his chair at the desk, crossing the room with his shoulders back to grab Mary’s bag from its place on the floor. Reaching inside, he pulled the black smartphone out and dropped the bag on the table in front of her before returning to his seat. John strolled into the kitchen to better hear the person on the other side of the line.

“It’s off.” Sherlock complained.

“I don’t know how to turn it on.” Mary explained. “And anyway, who would I talk to?”

Pressing the button at the top, Sherlock waited for the little screen as it lit up, going through the process of running it’s start-up software. Setting it down, he returned to his laptop until it finished.

“Thanks very much.” John finished, hanging up and reaching for his coat by the door. “I’m going to pick it up now, care to join me?” He asked both of them, but only Mary responded, standing to follow him out the door. Sherlock listened as the two of them made their way down the stairs and out the front door. When it had thumped shut, he reached for the phone again, and paused.

I AM [  ] [  ] [  ] [  ] LOCKED

Sherlock stared at the tiny screen, petrified for a moment. Images of the beautiful, dark haired dominatrix filled his mind; but she was safely tucked away in the Orient, enjoying herself amongst the bashful, proper, and yet somehow incredibly perverted population of Japan.

There was a chance this was a coincidence; that Miss Mary Moore had purchased, or rather been given, the same model as The Woman had selected for her latently diabolical purposes. Perhaps all of the devices produced by this well known company were formatted thusly.

Sherlock glanced up at the open door, listening for any indication of sound from the front hall, or from Mrs. Hudson in her rooms. Not a sound, he was alone in the house.

Just to be certain...

I AM [S] [H] [E] [R] LOCKED

Unwittingly, the consulting detective held his breath, waiting.

PASSWORD INCORRECT

“How incredibly anti-climatic.” Sighing heavily, he tossed the device back onto the table and returned to his research. “John pass me a pen, would you?”

“JOHN!”

“What?” He finally answered, arriving at the top of the stairs with a plastic bag hanging from his arm and Mary right behind him.

“Pass me a pen, I’ve asked several times.”

“A lot of good it does when I’m out; did you forget we’d left?” Picking up a pen from the coffee table, he slapped it into Sherlock’s open palm.

“Mary, what’s the password on your phone?” He demanded, ignoring the inquiry.

“Password?” She asked innocently, giving a confused look.

“Yes, password. Really, where have you been all century?” Scarlet painted her cheeks while she scowled at him.

“Sherlock, behave.”John muttered.

“Four digit password to open your phone, what is it?” His tone became abrasive as his frustration increased, and John gave him a harsh glare.

“I’ve never created a password.” Mary answered quietly, made timid by his raised volume.

“Then what are the last four digits of your telephone number?” He asked, growing quiet while he spoke through his teeth. Mary shrugged helplessly, causing him to rise from his chair and pace about the room.

“Hold on, I’ve got it written down somewhere.” Reaching into her bag, she pulled out a folded slip of paper and held it towards him. Snatching it from her hand, Sherlock unfolded the damn thing and glanced at the last four digits.

5646\. Smashing his fingers against the screen, Sherlock input the digits and was rewarded with the home screen, completely unaltered from factory default.

“You’ve never even turned it on.” He mentioned, staring at the numbers dancing in front of his face while he glared at the home screen.

5+6+4+6=21. Lifting his hand, he swiped the thought away.

56+46=202. And again.

5 - J K L

6 - M N O

4 - G H I

6 - M N O

“Never had a reason to.” Mary countered, breaking his concentration. “You’re the only two people I speak to in the whole city, and everyone else I know doesn’t exist on this plane.” Her voice betrayed her sadness, but her stinging pride wouldn’t let fall the tears that threatened against her lashes.

“Sherlock.” John warned him.

“Quiet!” Sherlock shouted, causing Mary to cringe while John was unmoved; it took more than a temper tantrum to startle him. Strolling forward, the battle hardened army doctor snatched the device from Sherlock’s hand, surprising the idiot.

“This isn’t some riddle.” John told him sternly, turning to hand it to Mary. “If you can’t be in polite company then stay here by yourself. Come on, Mary, let’s see if Mrs. Hudson is in.” Laying a comforting hand on her shoulder, John steered her towards the stairs and a moment later they disappeared from sight.

Sherlock remained standing in the center of the living room, his eyes fixed on the last place he had seen their bobbing heads. This isn’t some riddle. John’s voice echoed in his head. Dropping harshly onto the leather sofa, he gripped the back of his head and dragged his hands forward, disrupting every hair as he shook his bangs, trying to clear his racing mind.

“I need a case.” He muttered quietly, unable to dispel the disappointed look on John’s face. This wasn’t the same look John gave him when he had a lady caller present and Sherlock was doing his damnedest to prevent their spending the evening together, to draw John’s attention. It wasn’t born of sexual frustration or general irritation or unnecessary embarrassment. John had been legitimately disappointed in Sherlock, in his behavior, in the choices of word and act he had made.

Pulling his blue robe around him, Sherlock spun on the sofa, landing with his face against the back cushion and his knees curled up into his chest. Inside the safety and confinement of his mind palace, behind his closed eyelids, Sherlock paced along the hallway involved with personal memories. At the very end of the hall was a smaller doorway, wooden, unlike the others, with ivy growing over it. The tarnished silver on the label read simply, John; Sherlock’s secret garden.

Pressing lightly on the little door, Sherlock ducked his head to enter the narrow, yet deep room. Recently dusted wooden shelves stretched out before him, filled with bits and pieces of their time together, with evidence of everything from John’s favorite meals, to his most comfortable jumper, to the first time he said “amazing” and the look of bemused awe he wore.

Distracting nonsense, all of it. Yet Sherlock could not convince himself to discard any of it. The whole of John’s existence remained locked away in a secret room at the back of the palace, utterly useless, but necessary.

“Sentiment.” Sherlock spat the word, disgusted with the thought.

By the time John returned, the sun had set and Sherlock never bothered to turn on any lights, leaving the flat in utter darkness. Mary, behind him on the stairs, continued past their door without acknowledging him, disappearing once more through her own door.

“I don’t know what’s got you so worked up over her phone.” John muttered quietly, while he picked up the living room a bit. “She doesn’t even know how to use it.”

Sherlock gave no response, unwilling to reveal his possibly ill-placed suspicions until there was more solid evidence. He listened to the army doctor shuffle around the flat; closing and latching the windows; turning off his computer and leaving it to charge; putting the leftover food away in the recently emptied cooler. After some time, John took the spiral stairs to his own bedroom, retiring for the night while Sherlock remained on the sofa and continued his silent self-flagellation.


	10. Epiloge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A series of events linked together by a plot line that I developed daydreaming. Inserted self into narration for my own selfish purposes.
> 
> Mary is a SCAdian cast from the Knowne World during the apocalypse that solves the time loop problem. Sponsored by a distant cousin, she is moved to London and takes up residence at 221 Baker Street.
> 
> Despite her attempts to avoid socialization with her housemates, Mary becomes close friends with John and Sherlock. When Sherlock finds out who her sponsor is, he uses the information against her to gain her assistance in improving his intimacy with John through a series of psychological stimulus designed to make him more comfortable with his slightly homosexual tendencies. (John isn't gay, but he never said anything about being /bi/)
> 
> That's the romantic side of this story; the rest I don't want to ruin in the synopsis :D
> 
> This epilogue is a cute mini fic I wrote for an online prompt almost a year ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a purely self indulgent piece of art, and will eventually (hopefully) include all of my fandom fantasies :) Hope you don't hate that.
> 
> Sherlock (and all others that I may incorporate by association) belong to BBC (and the various others that own what I have incorporated by association)
> 
> The SCA is real (go ahead and ask me about it); my version of it is based on my assistance in the development of the Sisters Grinn Filklore Fairy Tales owned by Raven Ai Briarkith. http://sistersgrinn.wordpress.com/
> 
> This is purely a fanfiction; the only purpose is my amusement. It will not hurt my feelings if you tell me whats not canon, or not properly British. All criticisms are taken with a grain of salt but I would LOVE to know what I did get wrong. This doubles as an exercise of my talents and I can only improve through being made to recognize my weaknesses. Thanks in advance for any beta reading and assistance.

Despite the ticking clock, hung above the mantel, reminding her every heartbeat that it was well past the time she should have in bed, Mary stayed awake with her side lamp lit and her eyes roaming across the little mass market paperback in her lap. Another historical fiction romance story involving a silly little virgin and the ruggedly handsome tall, dark, and sulky.

Whatever it was that these girls saw in their angsty Victorian batchelors, she couldn’t guess. Though, to be honest with herself, the quickly filling bookcase against the wall in her bedroom suggested she could.

Behind the wall to her left, Mary heard the thumping noise again; the noise was sporadic, giving no clues as to what it might be. Having reached the end of the chapter, and the last of her patience with the ruckus, Mary set her book down and crept across the cold wood floor on bare feed. Five steps, she pressed her ear against the old paint, resting her hands on either side. For a long time, it was silent, before another thump echoed against her cheek.

As she listened more closely, she could hear soft noises, cries of pain and fear, which almost immediately grew into screams and shouts, until she had to pull away from the wall, startled. Just then, the mournful sound of Mr. Holmes' violin rose above the faint din of street cars and falling rain; the screaming was instantly silenced.

Curious, Mary kept her footsteps silent as she descended the stairs, knowing that Mrs. Hudson’s apartment was below the old and creaking steps. Instead of knocking, she opened the unlocked door without permission, quickly stalking across the room on silent feet to tap Sherlock on the shoulder. Somewhat surprised, he turned to face her, holding the violin bow out like a sword. The glow from the streetlamp outside cast a dull shadow on his face.

“What are you doing, playing at this hour?” She asked quietly, not bothering to stifle the frustrated tone in her voice.

“You were duly warned that I play at all hours.” The asinine detective mumbled in reply. “The more appropriate question, then, is why you are still awake?”

“You woke me.” She countered.

“Liar.” He whispered softly. “I told you, your lip curls. Must you always be amused by your own false words?”

Just then, the two of them heard a noise in the kitchen, and turned to find John standing at the bottom of his spiral staircase.

“Sherlock,” John mumbled, and then, glancing around, added. “Mary.”

“Hello John.” Mary answered quietly, while Sherlock turned towards the window and began to play again.

“Must you tonight?” John asked, shuffling forward and settling in his red velvet chair. “I already wasn’t sleeping very well.” He whined a bit, rubbing his face with the sleeves of his pyjamas.

“I woke you.” Sherlock stated.

“Obviously.” John growled in reply.

“My apologies.” Sherlock surprised Mary with his sincerity, and she turned to look at him. His face was completely blank while he stared at the wet street outside, but the glassy look in his eyes threatened tears. “I think I’m finished for the evening anyway.” He added in a low voice.

“Thank goodness.” John muttered, rising once again and making his way back to bed. “It was beautiful though.” He added, not bothering to pause or turn around. The corner of Sherlock’s lip rose in response to the complement.

“I heard a thumping noise on the other side of my living room wall.” Mary informed the detective quietly, when John was out of earshot. “Sounded like someone tossing and turning in bed, banging against the headboard.”

“Perhaps it wasn’t I who woke you, then.” Sherlock remarked noncommittally.

“He’s an army doctor, right?” She asked, then continued without waiting for an answer. “He was in combat, I bet he’s got loads of bad memories left over. Might cause even the strongest men to have nightmares.” The consulting detective gave no reply. “You played to wake him up, didn’t you? To rescue him from that self perpetuated hell, without having to explain to him that he was screaming.”

“Good night, Miss Mary.” Sherlock murmured. Carefully setting down his violin, he stalked across the living room and kitchen in silence, even as he closed his bedroom door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is an "Episode Two" that I haven't worked on in a while, that is based on the Three Garidebs and involves some Halloween costumes and likely so smut. I haven't gotten there yet. I'm awful at this. If anyone actually wants to see Episode Two, you better start telling me because my motivation on this sort of thing has waned significantly. Until I get back on my happy pills, I doubt I'll be producing much of anything.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a purely self indulgent piece of art, and will eventually (hopefully) include all of my fandom fantasies :) Hope you don't hate that.
> 
> Sherlock (and all others that I may incorporate by association) belong to BBC (and the various others that own what I have incorporated by association) 
> 
> The SCA is real (go ahead and ask me about it); my version of it is based on my assistance in the development of the Sisters Grinn Filklore Fairy Tales owned by Raven Ai Briarkith. http://sistersgrinn.wordpress.com/
> 
> This is purely a fanfiction; the only purpose is my amusement. It will not hurt my feelings if you tell me whats not canon, or not properly British. All criticisms are taken with a grain of salt but I would LOVE to know what I did get wrong. This doubles as an exercise of my talents and I can only improve through being made to recognize my weaknesses. Thanks in advance for any beta reading and assistance.


End file.
